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BROTHERS  ALL 


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BROTHERS   ALL 


BROTHERS   ALL 

MORE   STORIES  OF  DUTCH 
PEASANT   LIFE 


BY 

MAARTEN    MAARTENS 

AUTHOR  OF   "DOROTHEA,"   ETC. 


W  55     • 


D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 

1909 


BROTHERS   ALL 

ISRAELS ! 

A  BIT  OF  BIOGRAPHY 

"TF  I  were  rich — a  thing  I  never  shall  be — I 
I  should  chuck  up  the  whole  thing  to- 
morrow." The  speaker  was  a  man  in  middle 
life  —  Dante's  five-and-thirty  —  pale-faced  and 
nervous,  the  sort  of  man  who  lives  by  ploughing 
and  harrowing  his  own  brains.  He  was  a  fairly 
successful  journalist  and  writer.  At  this  moment 
he  lay  back,  tired,  in  an  easy-chair  at  his  club. 

The  other  man,  also  in  an  easy-chair,  also 
tired,  also  a  journalist,  looked  up  lazily,  watching 
the  blue  smoke  of  his  cigar. 

"Have  you  ever  reflected,"  he  asked,  "what 
you  would  do  instead  ?" 

"A  score  of  times." 

"Do  you  know,  I  never  have.  It  has  never 
occurred  to  me  that  I  could,  by  any  possibility, 
become  rich.     In  fact,  I  know  I  can't." 

"  Nor  can  I.  It  is  quite  as  impossible  for  me. 
That  constitutes  the  chief  charm  of  thinking  it 
out." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,  but  I  suppose  you 
have  more  imagination  than  I  have." 


393820 


2  ISRAELS ! 

"  I  have  plenty  of  imagination  of  a  kind.  But 
I  have  to  be  the  hero  of  my  own  imaginings.  I 
don't  run  to  a  novel  or  a  play." 

"You  could  live  a  drama,  but  you  couldn't 
get  one  acted  by  other  people."  The  voice  in- 
dicated banter.  "  In  other  words,  you  are  a 
strictly  subjective  genius." 

The  middle-aged  man — he  was  a  good  deal 
the  younger  of  the  two — didn't  like  banter.  "  I 
am  not  a  genius  at  all,"  he  answered  shortly. 
"  Would  you  pass  me  a  light  ?  " 

"  H'm ;  I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  the  elder  man, 
complying.  "  Well,  tell  me,  Kortum,  if  you  came 
into  a  fortune  to-morrow,  what  would  you  do? 
Chuck  up  all  the  writing.  Get  away  from  the 
treadmill.     Naturally — and  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  live  absolutely  and  entirely  for 
myself  henceforth." 

"  In  these  altruistic  days  that  sounds  frankly 
refreshing.  You  mean  you  would  spend  all 
your  money  in  having  an  unmitigated  good 
time?" 

"Yes." 

"  Like  the  once  famous  Jubilee  Plunger  ?  " 

"  No,  not  a  bit  like  that.  My  enjoyments,  as 
you  can  realize,  Hackner,  if  you  choose,  would 
be  largely  intellectual.  Not  only  so.  They 
would  also  be  sensuous." 

".Invite  me,  please." 

"You  wilfully  misunderstand.  My  chief 
delight  would  be  to  escape  at  once,  and  for  ever, 
from  this  grey  town,  from  this  chill  country, 


ISRAELS !  3 

from  the  whole  bleak,  ugly  North.  I  should 
never  again,  during  this  brief  life,  leave  sunshine 
and  orange-groves,  blue  seas  and  Oriental  colour. 
That,  I  admit,  is  merely  sensuous— up  to  a  point. 
For  there  is  more  artistic  enjoyment  in  a  month 
of  Spain  or  Italy  than  in  a  cycle  of— Cathay." 

"You  know  the  South?" 

"Know  it?  No.  I  have  glimpsed  at  it— 
twice,  in  a  tourist's  trip— seen  its  possibilities, 
like  a  hungry  boy  at  a  pastry-cook's  window. 
Seen  just  enough  to  keep  a  craving  at  my  heart 
for  ever.  Oh,  what's  the  use  of  talking  ?  I  say, 
isn't  this  a  beastly  glum  hole,  this  murky,  native 
city  of  ours  ?  Wouldn't  you  be  precious  glad  to 
escape  from  it  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  elder  man, 
musingly  watching  his  rings  of  smoke.  "  It 
is  a  beastly  place,  but  I  suppose  I've  got  past 
wanting  to  leave  it." 

"Not  I.  Every  year  makes  it  worse — and 
the  horrible  grind.  However,  this  sort  of  talk 
isn't  much  good.  I'm  out  of  sorts  to-night. 
Something's  happened  to  upset  me.  A  fellow 
had  much  better  simply  play  the  game." 

The  grey-haired  man  looked  kindly  at  the 
black-haired  one.  "At  your  age,"  he  said, 
"  there's  always  a  chance  of  something  turning 
up." 

"  Oh,  no.  And  it's  a  poor  sort  of  chap  who 
hopes  for  that !  Besides,  I  once  had  an  only 
chance — a  sort  of  a  chance — and  lost  it.  That's 
as  much  as  would  fall  to  the  lot  of  any  man."    He 


4  ISRAELS ! 

shook  himself  together.  "  Please  don't  think, 
Hackner,  that  I'm  the  sort  of  fool  who  goes 
through  life  grumbling,  and  playing  in  a  lottery, 
or  helping  old  bodies  over  crossings  in  hopes  of 
a  legacy.     You  know  me  better  than  that." 

"I  know  you  better  than  that,  dear  boy.  It 
was  I  that  set  you  building  your  castles  in  the 
air.  I  assure  you  I  built  plenty  in  my  day, 
if  not  on  the  impossible  chance  of  a  fortune ;  but 
my  castles,  like  many  an  older  one,  are — 
ruins.  I  am  sorry  something  has  occurred  to 
put  you  out." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing;  only  I  suppose  it  was  that 
set  me  talking  about  money.  You  know  the 
rich  paper-manufacturer,  Ostlar  ?  " 

"  By  sight.     I  hear  he  is  very  ill." 

"  He  is  dying.  I  met  his  doctor  this  morning. 
He  can't  live  through  the  night,  the  doctor  said." 

"Well,  I  suppose  he  is  one  of  the  richest 
men  in  the  City.  His  mills  and  his  money  will 
go  to  some  distant  relatives,  Heaven  knows 
where." 

"  Or  perhaps  to  a  charity  ?  "  said  Kortum. 

"  Possibly.  One  never  heard  of  his  having 
any  relations.  And  it  is  quite  in  accordance 
with  the  present  craze  for  vast  philanthropic 
bequests." 

"  I  hate,"  said  Kortum,  "  this  parade  of  charity 
nowadays.  What  a  sickening  thing  is  all  our 
philanthropic  notoriety,  in  the  papers  after  death, 
and  on  the  platforms  before !  I  am  burning  to 
write  a  series  of  articles  on  it,   showing  the 


ISRAELS !  5 

people  up.  Any  villain  nowadays  can  earn 
universal  respect  by  large  public  donations ;  any 
fool  can  make  himself  interesting  by  talking 
about  the  poor.  And  the  meanest  of  all  are 
those  that  wait  to  disgorge  some  of  their  ill- 
gotten  gains  till  they're  dead." 

"Tis  easiest  for  those  that  have  nothing  to 
disgorge,  or  to  leave  behind  them,  to  any  one." 

Kortum  remembered  that  his  companion  was 
a  married  man  with  a  family.  He  edged  away 
from  what  might  become  delicate  ground. 

"The  public  like  articles  abusing  the  rich," 
he  said.  "  That's  the  strangest  thing  about  our 
time ;  they  like  them,  because  they  think  they're 
deserved.  Never,  I  suppose,  not  even  in  Juvenal's 
day,  has  money  been  so  entirely  the  one  thing 
desired  and  desirable.  In  the  Rome  of  the 
Decline,  in  the  Byzantine  corruption,  there  were 
always  a  great  many  superstitions,  and  a  good 
many  class  distinctions,  left ;  we  have  absolutely 
nothing  but  the  greed,  and  the  recognition,  of 
gold.  Yet,  at  the  same  time,  even  in  my  day, 
since  I  was  a  boy,  there  has  come  up  an  uncom- 
fortable feeling  that  the  new  religion  is  a  base 
religion,  that  great  wealth  is  a  thing  to  be 
ashamed  of—the  very  wealthy  themselves  are 
ashamed  of  it,  and  try  to  apologise,  as  it  were,  by 
making  some  sort  of  philanthropic  stir.  I  mean 
the  intellects  among  them  ;  of  course,  there  are 
plenty  of  hereditary  fools  that  just  fool  along." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  true,"  said  the  other 
thoughtfully,  a  little  comforted  about   his  own 


6  ISRAELS ! 

poverty,  as  Kortum,  perhaps,  had  intended  he 
should  be. 

"  Now,  if  I  were  rich,"  continued  Kortum,  "  I 
should  resist  all  that  modern  affectation.  It 
wouldn't  touch  me.  I  should  use  my  money,  as 
intended,  rationally,  for  myself." 

"  That's  why  you  don't  get  it." 

"That,  if  correct — which  it  isn't  (look  around 
you!) — would  only  prove  what  a  blind  idiot  is 
Fortune.  Spending  money  is  a  far  better  way 
of  diffusing  it  than  giving  it — far  more  beneficial 
to  the  community.  All  this  talk  about  charity, 
luxury,  the  simpler  life,  is  rutfMsJi,  economically 
and  socially  unsound." 

"  Old  Ostlar  made  all  his  money  for  himself, 
and  kept  it  to  himself,  and  now  he  is  leaving  it 
behind  him,"  moralized  the  older  man,  the  poorer 
man,  the  man  with  children. 

"  What  we  need,"  said  Kortum,  not  heeding 
him,  "  is  to  get  away  from  all  this  maudlin  con- 
trolling of  each  other's  actions.  The  whole  world 
just  now  is  conscience  to  its  neighbour.  We 
want  to  get  back  to  '  Every  man  for  himself,  and 
the  State  to  see  fair  play.' " 

"  Well,  that's  a  generous  attitude,  at  any  rate, 
in  a  man  as — unwealthy  as  yourself.  The  social 
conscience  of  most  of  us  have-nots  is  just  wanting 
to  get  at  the  haves." 

Kortum  laughed.  "  I  treat  of  these  things 
theoretically,"  he  said.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
am  really  quite  happy  as  I  am.  The  work's 
interesting  enough,  though   one  abuses  it,  and 


ISRAELS !  7 

I've  always  a  spare  coin  for  a  cigar  or  a  drink,  to 
a  friend.  Yes,  I'm  happy  enough.  I  should  be 
awfully  bored,  say,  with  a  large  business,  or  as 
a  thieving  lawyer,  or  in  a  dozen  other  positions 
that  one  sees  men  happy  in.  A  thousand  a  year 
and  Italy;  that's  my  ideal.  Old  Ostlar  set  me 
thinking  about  rich  and  poor." 

"But  why  should  the  thought  of  him  put 
you  out  ?  " 

Kortum  reflected  a  moment.  "Why  shouldn't 
I  tell  you?  It's  really  of  little  importance.  You 
were  saying  he  had  no  known  relatives.  But 
you've  heard,  I  suppose,  of  his  friend  ?  " 

"No.     Who  was  he?" 

"  Dear  me,  I  thought  everybody  knew  about 
that  business.  How  we  exaggerate  our  own 
importance !  Well,  it's  long  ago.  For  the  first 
quarter  of  a  century  of  their  lives,  Ostlar  and  my 
father,  living  side  by  side  in  the  same  village, 
and  then,  working  together  in  the  same  foreign 
surroundings,  were  inseparable  comrades.  At 
the  age  of  fifteen  they  ran  away  from  home  to 
the  same  ship.  They  slept  together  in  the  same 
berth  a-top  of  each  other  ;  they  used  to  lie  under 
alternate  nights.  As  a  grown  man,  Ostlar  fell 
violently  in  love  with  a  young  woman ;  he 
worked  long  for  her,  got  engaged  to  her;  then 
my  father  stole  her  away  from  him.  I'm  afraid 
my  father — didn't  behave  very  well.  But  my 
mother  was  worth  it.  She  told  Ostlar  she 
couldn't  love  any  one  but  my  father.  He  never 
spoke  to  either  of  them   again,   nor  took   any 


8  ISRAELS ! 

farther  notice  of  them.  They  tried  several  times 
to  make  up,  but  he  never  answered." 

"  Probably  he  couldn't  trust  himself.  It  was 
better  so,"  said  Hackner,  with  a  sympathetic 
whiff  of  his  pipe. 

"  I  dare  say.  But  you  know,  he  grew  into  a 
dreadful  old  curmudgeon ;  his  temper  was  awful. 
All  his  workpeople  hated  him,  I  believe.  When 
I  was  born,  they — my  parents — asked  him  to 
let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  come  and  stand 
godfather.  That  was  the  only  time  he  ever  took 
any  notice  or  made  any  reply." 

"What  did  he  do?"askedthe  otherwith  interest. 

"Sent  them  the  will,  torn  across,  which  he 
had  made  before  his  engagement,  in  his  early 
days,  by  which  he  left  the  little  he  then  possessed 
to  my  mother — or  to  my  father,  if  she  died  with- 
out heirs." 

Hackner,  the  worn  man  with  the  kindly  eyes, 
looked  straight  in  front  of  him,  and,  as  the  silence 
deepened,  he  remarked  :  "  It  was  hardly  judicious, 
perhaps,  however  well  meant — that  asking  him 
to  be  your  godfather." 

"  I  suppose  not.  But,  you  see,  I  seem  to  have 
missed  somehow  being,  either  by  my  mother  or 
my  father,  old  Ostlar's  ultimate  heir." 

"  In  rather  a  topsy-turvy  manner — don't  you 
think?" 

Kortum  broke  into  a  peal  of  merriment. 
"  Well,  yes.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  literal.  Talking 
of  money,  do  you  know  the  Chief  told  me  the 
other  day  he  was  going  to  raise  my  salary  ?  " 


ISRAELS !  9 

"He  ought  to  have  done  it  long  ago.  They 
have  been  underpaying  you  for  years." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I'm  so  glad  you  think  so  ! 
If  it  has  to  be  one  or  the  other— and  I  suppose 
it  mostly  has— I  for  one  would  much  rather  be 
under-  than  over-paid.  At  least " — and  again  he 
laughed — "  I  would  much  rather  have  my  friends, 
my  colleagues,  take  that  view."  And  then  they 
talked  on  of  "the  Shop/'  as  they  called  it— the 
office  of  the  great  morning  and  evening  daily, 
with  the  incessant  worry  through  most  hours  of 
the  twenty-four.  They  talked  on,  as  men  do 
who  have  great  part  of  their  life  in  common; 
dozens  of  petty  interests  cropping  up  along  the 
road,  as  they  talked  on. 

"  Please,  sir,  you're  wanted  at  the  telephone," 
said  a  noiseless  waiter  at  Kortum's  elbow. 

"Nine  o'clock!"  cried  Hackner,  at  the  same 
time,  rising.     "  Dear  me,  I  must  hurry  home."   - 

Kortum  had  taken  up  a  review.  "It's  only 
my  landlady,"  he  said,  "  wanting  to  know  whether 
she  must  still  keep  my  dinner.  I  had  told  her  I 
should  dine  at  home  to-night.  Just  speak  to  her 
as  you  go  down,  will  you  ? — that's  a  good  fellow  ! 
— and  tell  her  I  shan't  dine  at  all." 

"For  a  man  who  is  going  to  live  in  luxury 
some  day,  you  are  wonderfully  abstemious  at 
present,"  said  Hackner. 

"  I  should  go  to  my  dinner  fast  enough  if  it 
were  a  particularly  good  one."  He  settled  him- 
self in  his  deep  leather  chair.  "  It  is  the  thought 
that  one  will  never  be  able  to  command  a  very 


10  ISRAELS ! 

much  better  meal  which  is  so  depressing;  it 
keeps  one  from  enjoying  this." 

"  Fie,  Kortum !  And  just  now  you  were 
saying  you  were  contented " 

Kortum  looked  up  from  his  "  Quarterly  "  with 
the  shine  in  his  dark  eyes  that  every  one  who 
knew  him  liked.  "Are  you  always  consistent?" 
he  said.  "  Besides,  if  I  may  say  so,  I  shouldn't 
care  about  ordering  the  banquet  unless  I  could 
get  somebody  to  share  it."  He  had  not  read 
many  pages  of  an  article  on  Labour  Colonies  in 
Roumania  when  Hackner  once  more  stood  be- 
tween him  and  the  light. 

"It's  not  your  landlady  who  wants  you,"  he 
said,  "  but  Rosberg,  the  lawyer." 

"Well,  what  does  he  want?  I  don't  know 
him.     I  suppose  I  must  go."     Kortum  rose. 

"  He  asked  whether  you  could  come  round  to 
see  him.  I  said  you  would,  unless  I  telephoned 
afresh." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  lives.  Somewhere 
on  the  Heerengracht  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  gave  the  number — eighty-seven. 
Well,  good  night.     I  must  get  home  to  my  wife." 

"  Good  night.  I  suppose  it  is  some  tiresome 
charity  business.  But  they  won't  get  me  on  to 
any  more  of  their  committees.  I  had  enough  of 
the  last." 

Meditating  on  the  follies  and  iniquities  of 
charity  bazaars,  concerts,  and  balls,  Hans  Kortum 
started  for  the  Heerengracht.  It  was  a  bitterly 
cold  winter  evening.     The  east  wind  whistled 


ISRAELS !  11 

along  the  blackness  of  the  gloomy  streets. 
People  hurried  past,  wrapped  close,  as  if  eager 
to  get  away  from  the  weather.  At  a  corner  a 
child  held  out  its  hand.  "  Get  away ! "  said  Hans  ; 
"  it's  very  wrong  to  beg."  The  child  ran  beside 
him  whining.  "Get  away!"  he  said;  "it's  very 
wrong  to  give  to  beggars."  The  child  ran  beside 
him  whining.  He  gave  it  a  silver  piece.  He 
turned  on  to  the  Heerengracht,  which  is  a  sombre, 
a  stately,  a  cold  canal.  He  passed  one  of  the 
biggest  mansions  upon  it,  and  looked  up  at  the 
dead  stone  front.  "  Old  Ostlar's  house,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  I  must  be  getting  near  the  lawyer's 
number."  He  looked  under  the  next  street  lan- 
tern. Ninety-nine.  He  retraced  his  steps. 
Eighty-seven  was  Old  Ostlar's. 

He  rang ;  the  bell  sounded  away  into  the 
hollow  stillness  with  a  foolishly  persistent  clang. 
The  whole  front  of  the  house  was  dark.  After  a 
wait  there  approached  a  feeble  shuffling,  bolts 
were  drawn  back,  and  by  the  light  of  a  flickering 
candle,  an  old  woman  appeared  in  a  great  empty 
marble  hall. 

"This— this  is  not  Mr.  Rosberg's?"  said 
Kortum,  lamely.  "  Could  you  direct  me  where 
he  lives  ?  " 

"  It's  all  right,  sir,"  replied  the  old  crone  in  a 
shrill  voice.  "  Are  you  Mr.  Kortum?  Come  in. 
He  is  waiting  to  speak  to  you."  And  she  flung 
open  a  heavy  oak  door  and  stood  aside. 

Hans  Kortum  entered  a  lofty  dining-room, 
the  walls  of  which  were  covered  with   Italian 


12  ISRAELS ! 

landscape,  over  oaken  wainscotting,  in  the  Dutch 
manner  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Unlike  the 
hall,  this  handsome  room  was  well  lighted  by 
Japanese  bronze  oil-lamps,  and  on  one  half  of 
the  broad  table  silver  and  glass  had  been  laid  out 
for  a  meal.  A  decanter  of  wine  stood  there,  and 
the  lawyer  had  helped  himself  to  its  contents. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rosberg,  a  little  old  notary,  with 
a  brisk,  impertinent  manner,  "  I  had  to  speak  to 
you  at  once,  and  it  was  best  we  should  meet  here. 
Old  Ostlar  is  dead.    Did  you  know  him?" 

"  No,"  replied  Kortum. 

"  So  much  the  simpler.  Well,  he  has  left  you 
all  his  money." 

"  Good  Heavens ! " 

"  You  may  well  say  so.  So  should  I,  if  Provi- 
dence had  acted  so  well  by  me;  but  it  hasn't. 
He  has  made  you  not  only  his  sole  heir,  but  his 
executor.  I  have  the  will  here  " — he  leant  with 
his  hand  on  a  long  blue  document.  "There 
are  one  or  two  things  you  must  do  to-night, 
and  do  here.  That's  why  I  asked  you  to  come 
round." 

"  Can  I  read  the  will  ?  "  asked  Hans. 

"  By  all  means.     Shall  I  read  it  to  you?" 

"  I  think,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  should  like  to 
read  it  by  myself." 

"  By  all  means,"  replied  the  lawyer,  offended. 
"  Well,  yes ;  he  says  a  thing  or  two— but  I  dare 
say  you  will  understand.  Would  you  like  to  do 
everything  else  by  yourself,  too  ?  " 

"  Is  there  anything  very  special  ?  " 


ISRAELS !  13 

"  Well,  perhaps  not  to-night.  There  will  be 
formalities  to-morrow.  But  he  wishes  you  to 
stay  in  the  house  to-night."  The  lawyer 
replenished  his  glass.  "  It  is  perhaps  hardly 
a  festive  occasion.  Still,  you  must  allow  me 
to  drink  to  your  good  fortune,  Mr. " 

"  Oh,  not  to-night !    Not  here ! "  cried  Hans. 

The  lawyer  emptied  his  glass  in  silence. 
Then  he  said :  u  It's  a  very  fair  claret,"  wished 
Kortum  a  curt  "Good  night,"  and  took  his 
leave. 

Hans  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair — a  fine  old 
bit  of  flowered  Utrecht  velvet— and  stared  around 
like  a  man  demented.  In  the  deadly  silence  he 
gazed  at  the  splendid  room,  and  then  at  the  bit  of 
blue  paper  which,  the  lawyer  had  said,  gave  all 
this  to  him.  All  this  ?  A  great  deal  more.  He 
was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  town. 

Then  he  thought  of  the  dead  man  lying 
upstairs,  with  whom  he  had  never  exchanged 
a  word  in  his  life,  whom  he  only  knew  by  sight. 
He  supposed  he  must  go  and  see  him  now,  for 
the  last  time — near,  for  the  first — a  curious  thrill 
of  unwillingness  ran  through  him.  The  lawyer 
had  said  there  were  things  he  must  do  at  once. 
He  drew  the  document  towards  him. 

It  was  simply  worded.  It  said  that  Hans 
Kortum's  mother  had  been  the  hope  and  the  joy 
and  the  ruin  of  Ostlar's  life.  He  could  not  for- 
give her  and  he  could  not  leave  off  loving  her. 
He  told  this  to  her  son.  And  after  her  death, 
her  husband  being  dead  also — only  a  few  years 


14  ISRAELS ! 

ago — the  old  man  had  made  this  will,  leaving  all 
he  possessed  to  her  only  child. 

He  asked  Hans  to  come,  immediately  upon 
the  news  of  his  death,  into  the  house  no  Kortum 
had  ever  entered,  and  not  to  leave  it  till  after  the 
funeral.  "  I  have  lived  alone ;  I  shall  die  alone," 
he  wrote.  He  was  evidently  anxious  that  his 
heir  should  protect  the  remains  and  see  that  they 
were  treated  decently.  Moreover,  he  asked  him 
to  burn,  unread,  within  twelve  hours,  a  parcel  of 
letters,  and  to  place  on  the  dead  breast,  before  it 
was  cold,  a  portrait  and  a  lock  of  hair. 

Kortum  rang  at  once.  The  old  woman  con- 
ducted him  to  the  death-chamber.  It  was  a 
sombre  room,  with  green  hangings.  He  stood 
looking  at  the  cold,  yellow  face.  In  an  escritoire 
he  found  the  things  as  described  ;  he  recognised 
the  girl-portrait  of  his  mother.  At  the  moment 
when  he  took  the  keys  from  the  dead  man's  table, 
he  felt  that  the  change  in  his  own  life  came  true. 
By  the  light  of  his  solitary  candle  he  crept  down- 
stairs again.  He  remembered  now  that  old  Ostlar 
had  taken  over  this  whole  house,  with  all  the 
furniture,  in  a  bankruptcy  which  he  himself  had 
brought  about.  He  had  lived  in  it  with  the  old 
charwoman-housekeeper  and  a  slavey. 

In  the  dining-room  he  found  the  old  woman 
placing  several  dishes,  cold,  all  of  them — an  aspic, 
a  French  pate,  a  fruit  jelly — a  luxurious,  if  some- 
what peculiar  repast.  "He  said  I  was  to  get 
them  from  the  pastry-cook's  for  you,"  remarked 
the  old  woman.     "  He  told  me  to  spend  twenty 


ISRAELS !  15 

florins  on  them.  He  must  have  been  wandering 
in  his  mind.  But  I  done  it.  He  never  spent  five 
on  a  meal  for  himself  in  his  life." 

Something  rose  up  in  Hans  Kortum's  throat 
and  choked  him  for  a  moment.  It  was  all  the 
mourning  old  Ostlar  had. 

Hans  ate  some  of  the  good  things,  and  that 
cleared  his  mind  wonderfully.  He  leant  back  in 
his  chair  and  surveyed  the  situation. 

Well,  he  was  rich  now,  suddenly  rich  beyond 
his  wildest  dreams.  A  little  too  rich,  he  was 
afraid,  but  he  mustn't  mind  that.  He  could  do 
all  he  had  ever  wanted  to  do.  And  he  had  written 
his  last  unwilling  article !  Oh,  joy !  he  had  written 
his  last  unwilling  article ! 

Within  a  fortnight  he  would  leave  for  Italy ; 
would  leave  all  his  old,  murky  world  behind  him  ; 
would  leave,  and  begin  a  new  life.  At  last  he 
would  enjoy  to  the  full  his  long  pent-up  love  for 
all  that  is  beautiful.  Here,  in  this  northern  city, 
everything  was  ugly.  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  there 
were  a  few  beautiful  pictures  in  the  Museum,  and 
you  could  occasionally  hear  very  beautiful  music. 
But  that  does  not  make  life  beautiful.  The  city 
itself  was  monstrous,  the  streets,  the  shops,  the 
clothes,  the  factories — everything  he  could  think 
of— the  faces,  the  climate  (winter  and  summer), 
the  ideals,  the  conversations,  the  money-making, 
the  vulgar  newspapers.  Especially  the  news- 
papers. All  life  was  a  persistent  nightmare  of 
ugliness  and  vulgarity.  In  a  fortnight  he  would 
be  away  from  it  all. 


16  ISRAELS ! 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  temples  and  nymphs  of 
the  painted  landscape  around  him.  The  walls  of 
the  room  were  a  blaze  of  sunlight  and  a  maze 
of  revelry.  In  this  way  the  old  seventeenth- 
century  Dutchmen  endeavoured  to  escape  from 
the  grey  platitude  of  their  daily  lives.  Soon 
he  would  be  amidst  the  real  thing.  Dear  me, 
these  Italian  landscapes  were  very  well  done ; 
so  well,  they  really  might  be  Moucherons.  He 
took  up  a  lamp  to  examine  them.  What  a  sen- 
suous delight  of  colour  and  movement!  What 
happiness !  What  a  joy  of  living,  unknown  in 
these  latitudes!  He  wondered  —  were  they 
Moucherons  ?    Admirably  done. 

And  suddenly  a  desire  seized  him  to  discover 
what  other  treasures  the  house  possessed  that 
had  now  become  his.  What  was  behind  those 
two  finely  carved  folding-doors  ?  He  flung  them 
open,  and  stood,  lamp  in  hand,  on  the  threshold 
of  a  white  and  gold  Louis  XV.  saloon.  The 
furniture  and  hangings  were  dark  blue  and  silver 
silk.  Against  the  walls  hung  a  number  of  pictures 
in  gilt  frames.  Modern  art,  as  he  saw  at  a  glance. 
He  advanced  towards  the  nearest.  An  Israels ! 
The  great  living  Dutch  painter  of  pathos  in 
humble  life.  A  poor  woman  by  an  empty  cradle 
in  the  grey  sorrow  of  the  lonely  room. 

He  went  on  quickly  to  the  next.  A  fisher- 
woman  by  her  open  door,  looking  out  to  the 
stormy  sea.  An  Israels.  A  very  fine  one.  Full 
of  subdued  anguish  and  stress  in  sea  and  sky. 
The  next.    Two  old  peasants  in  the  dull,  drab 


ISRAELS !  17 

cottage  at  their  all  too  scanty  meal.  Under  this 
a  title  :  "  Their  Daily  Crust."  He  stood  looking 
at  it  a  long  time;  as  he  turned  away,  his  eyes 
were  soft.  He  remembered  now  having  heard 
that  the  man  on  whom  Ostlar  had  foreclosed  had 
been  a  great  art  connoisseur,  and  had  wasted  his 
money  buying  pictures.  Why,  every  one  of  these 
paintings  must  now  be  worth  many  thousands  of 
pounds ! 

Another  large  picture  arrested  him  as  he 
turned.  A  splendid  thing.  A  sick  child  in  the 
cupboard-bedstead  at  the  side ;  in  the  middle, 
father  and  mother  by  the  table,  his  pockets  inside 
out,  a  few  coppers  on  the  board.  And  near  to 
this  another  sadly  simple,  impressive  scene.  A 
young  man,  neat* and  poor,  in  front  of  a  closed 
door,  in  the  dark  drizzle,  turning  away,  look- 
ing straight  at  you  with  despair  in  his  eyes. 
Under  this  also  a  title,  though  unnecessary  :  "  No 
Work."  The  whole  room  seemed  to  be  hung  with 
Israels;  the  pinched  poverty  stared  out  too 
terribly  against  the  mass  of  heavy  gilding  and 
brocade. 

He  went  back  to  the  dining-room  and  sat  for 
a  long  time  thoughtful,  his  head  between  his 
hands.  He  must  spend  the  whole  night  in  this 
house,  by  the  dead  man's  will.  He  had  no  wish 
to  go  to  bed;  he  knew  he  would  not  sleep. 
When  he  lifted  his  face,  his  eyes  were  still  full 
of  the  pictures  in  the  dark  room  behind  him.  He 
did  not  see  the  Italian  landscapes.  "  It  is  a 
beautiful    emotion ! "  he    said,  and   laughed    at 


18  ISRAELS ! 

himself.    And  he  went  back  to  the  pictures  again 
and  spent  another  hour  with  them. 

At  midnight  a  knock  came  to  the  dining-room 
door,  startling  him.  A  man  entered,  evidently 
an  artisan  of  the  most  superior  class. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  man.  u  I 
understand  you  are  the  new  master.  I  arranged 
with  the  housekeeper  to  watch  here  while  she 
lay  down." 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite  right.  But  how  do  you  mean 
— master?  Are  you" — Kortum  looked  dubious 
— "  a  servant  of ?  " 

The  man  smiled.  "  I've  been  foreman  at  the 
paper-mills  for  thirty  years,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  of  course !  The  paper-mills ! "  exclaimed 
Kortum. 

"Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  this  is  a  very 
important  event  for  all  of  us,  sir.  There's  eight 
hundred  hands  at  the  paper-mills." 

"  Eight  hundred  hands ! "  exclaimed  Kortum. 

"  And,  if  I  might  be  so  bold  as  to  say  it,  sir  " 
— he  paused  ;  then,  with  an  effort :  "  It's  a  very 
anxious  moment  for  us."  Kortum  did  not  answer. 
"  You'll  forgive  me,  sir,  if  I  can't  keep  silence. 
The — mills  will  be  kept  on?" 

"Doubtless.     Of  course.     I  shall  sell  them." 

"  God  help  us,  if  that  be  true ! " 

"What  do  you  mean?  You'll  probably  get 
as  good  a  master  as  you've  lost." 

The  old  foreman  shook  his  head.  "May  I 
speak,  sir,  to-night,  while  there's  time?" 

"Speak,  if  you  like,"  answered  Kortum.    "Sit 


ISRAELS !  19 

down!"  With  a  respectful  movement  the  old 
man  declined  this  invitation. 

"You  can't  sell  the  mills,  sir,  and  that's  the 
truth.  You  can  only  close  them.  My  old  master 
was  not  an  easy  man  to  get  on  with — he  was 
soured,  somehow ;  but  he  had  his  soft  side,  sharp 
man  of  business  as  he  was,  and  he  was  terribly 
just.  I  could  get  on  with  him,  though  I  say  it 
myself,  and  he'd  often  talk  over  matters  with  me, 
having  been  with  him  all  his  life,  that  even  the 
gentlemen  in  the  office  didn't  quite  know  the 
rights  of.  Well,  sir,  he'd  made  a  power  of  money 
out  of  the  mills,  but  in  the  last  years  they  didn't 
even  pay  their  expenses.  *  It's  my  own  fault, 
Brest,'  he  would  say  to  me  ;  'I  can't  put  in  the 
new  improvements.  I'm  too  old.  We  must  rub 
on  like  this  now  ;  it  isn't  for  long.'  He  knew  he 
was  breaking  up." 

"Well,  the  new  man  will  put  in  the  new 
improvements." 

u  No,  he  won't,  sir.  There's  too  much  to  do. 
It  wouldn't  be  worth  any  man's  while  to  buy  the 
mills." 

"  Then  we  must  close  them.  I  am  going  to 
live  in  Italy." 

"There's  eight  hundred  hands,  sir.  And 
master,  he  said  to  me  :  '  The  new  master  must 
work  the  business  up.  There's  plenty  of  ready 
money  to  keep  it  going  and  put  it  right'  He 
didn't  say  who  the  new  master  would  be,  sir,  but 
'  He's  a  young  man,'  he  says,  'and  energetic,  and 
he's  chosen  an  occupation  that  you  have  to  be 


20  ISRAELS  ! 

quick  in  and  sharp.  And  I  see  his  name  down 
in  charity  committees,  so,  you  see,  he  cares  about 
the  people.  He'll  probably  have  all  the  new- 
fangled notions  about  libraries  and  pensions, 
Brest ;  so  he'll  be  a  better  master  than  I.  I  hope 
and  believe  he  will,'  says  master,  with  such  a 
break  in  his  voice  that  I  stood  up  to  him.  \  Why, 
you've  kept  the  mills  going  at  a  loss,  for  the 
people,  all  these  years,'  says  I.  '  And  what  busi- 
ness is  that  of  yours?  '  says  master — he  was  like 
that.  '  Ain't  I  one  of  the  richest  men  in  this 
city?  Didn't  I  make  all  my  money  out  of  my 
mills  ? '  says  he.  There,  sir,  now  I've  told  you 
all.     God  forgive  me  if  I  was  wrong." 

"  Did  your  master  tell  you  to  tell  me?" 
demanded  Kortum,  shading  his  face. 

"No,  sir— but  he  didn't  tell  me  not  to  tell 
you." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  the  mills.  Why,  the 
pictures  in  the  next  room  alone  must  be  worth 
far  more  money  than  I  shall  ever  want." 

"The  pictures  of  the  poor  people,  sir?" 

"  But  I  couldn't  manage  mills." 

"There's  very  good  men  in  the  office,  sir. 
Old  master,  he  had  a  wonderful  gift  of  selecting 
men,  so  I  thought  we  must  be  all  right  in  his 
selecting  you  as  his  heir.  He  only  turned  away 
one  manager  once.  '  He's  a  genius,'  says  he  to 
me;  ' they're  the  only  sort  you  can't  use  in  a 
business.  Beg  your  pardon,  are  you  a  genius, 
sir?" 

"  No.    There  isn't  a  word  of  all  this  in  the 


ISRAELS !  21 

will.  He  expressly  says  what  he  wishes  me 
to  do." 

"About  the  mills,  sir?" 

"No,  about  other  matters.  Eight  hundred 
hands  at  the  mills?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  It  is  a  splendid  vocation." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?" 

"  Look  here,  you  had  better  leave  me  alone 
now.  I  am  going  to  Italy  for  a  couple  of  months 
with  a  friend.  After  that,  I  suppose  I  shall 
come  back  here." 

He  motioned  the  man  away.  Then  he  went 
back  to  the  white  and  gold  saloon,  and  closed  the 
door  upon  himself  and  the  pictures,  passing 
slowly  from  one  to  the  other,  and  harking  back. 


THE   DEATH-WAY 

THE  one  old  man  sat  by  the  bed,  and  the 
other  lay  in  it.     Neither  spoke  a  word. 

Ten  minutes  passed,  and  more.  They  re- 
mained thus  together,  almost  immovable.  The 
one  old  man  sat  by  the  bed,  his  head  sunk 
forward,  his  underlip  protruding :  both  hands 
were  folded  upon  his  stick.  The  other  lay 
staring,  as  it  seemed,  at  nothing,  his  crumpled 
shirt  unloosened  about  his  scraggy  neck.  Around 
his  hollow  face  the  ragged  hairs  streamed  wide. 

"  You're  in  a  bad  way,"  said,  at  last,  the  old 
man  in  the  chair. 

He  in  the  bed  stared  steadily  on.  "  You've 
said  that  before,"  he  answered;  "'twas  the  last 
thing  that  you  said." 

"  Well— it's  true." 

"  I'd  like  a  bit  of  news,"  retorted  the  invalid, 
14 1  can  find  out  about  the  way  I'm  in,  for  myself." 

"You  might  be  civiller,  Jan,"  objected  his 
visitor,  "  to  a  man  that's  come  near  on  two  mile, 
to  see  ye." 

"  It  ain't  more'n  one  and  a  half,"  said  the  sick 
man,  "  nor  as  much." 

"  And  his  best  milker  off  her  feed." 

The    invalid  wriggled    himself   round    in    a 


THE   DEATH- WAY  23 

series  of  jerks.  "  Off  her  feed  ? "  he  cried. 
''Which  is  it?    Liza?" 

The  other  shook  his  long  head  up  and  down. 
"  Liza/'  he  said.  "  Something's  gone  wrong  in 
her  innards.     She  can't  tell  what." 

"  Have  ye  had  the  vet.  ?  " 

"  Pooh,  the  vet. !  If  a  cow  could  speak,  she'd 
soon  let  a  vet.  know  what  a  fool  he  is.  The  old 
woman  can't  tell.     It  was  her  as  I  meant." 

"Cows  is  cows,"  replied  the  invalid  and  lay 
back  a  long  time,  thinking.  Presently  he  re- 
marked :  "  I  had  a  cow  went  like  that,  seventeen 
years  ago,  come  next  Midsummer.  Nobody 
knew  what  ailed  her.  She  went  about  bellowing 
all  day." 

"  Liza  doesn't  bellow,"  interposed  the  visitor. 
The  other  took  no  notice  of  the.  interruption. 

"  She'd  stand  in  a  ditch  for  hours,  and  low, 
with  her  feet  in  the  water.  To  hear  her  like 
that,  loud  and  long,  it  was  like  the  psalm-singing 
in  church." 

"Did  she  get  over  it?"  asked  the  visitor, 
anxious  for  Liza. 

"She  died.  And  when  we  opened  her,  we 
found  the  old  woman's  church-book  that  had 
been  missing.  So  that  explained  it."  He  sank 
back  with  the  effort  of  all  this  conversation,  and, 
in  fact,  "the  old  woman"  had  already  come 
forward  to  the  bed. 

"  It's  time  you  were  going,  neighbour,"  she 
began.  "The  doctor  says  as  he  mayn't  talk 
above  more  than  a  minute  or  two."   Her  husband 


24  THE   DEATH-WAY 

broke  into  an  angry  gurgle.  "  And  not  get  into 
one  of  his  rages/'  added  the  old  woman  hastily, 
"or  the  doctor  says  as  he'll  burst  something, 
and  that'll  be  the  end  of  him." 

"  D the  doctor,"  said  the  invalid  amiably. 

The  visitor  had  risen  solemnly  and  shuffled  to 
the  door.  "There's  more  chance  of  the  doctor 
doing  that  to  you  than  you  to  the  doctor,"  he 
remarked,  with  an  ugly  chuckle.  "  By  the  by,  I 
forgot  to  tell  you,  the  young  Baron  has  altered 
the  direction  of  the  Death- Way." 

Both  husband  and  wife  gave  utterance  to  a 
cry  of  astonished  dismay. 

"  He's  making  a  new  garden  and  a  play-game 
place  close  to  the  Castle,"  continued  the  visitor, 
"and  so  he's  blocked  up  the  Death- Way,  and 
carried  it  round  straight  to  the  highway.  Round 
to  the  right,  you  know,  by  the  clump  of  larches  " 
— both  listeners  nodded — "yes,  that's  what  he's 
been  and  done." 

"  To  think  of  it ! "  said  the  old  woman,  with 
uplifted  hands.  Moved  the  Death-Way  !  Lord  ! 
Lord  !    To  think  what  the  rich  may  do  ! " 

The  sick  man  struck  the  coverlet.     "D 

it,  he  can't ! "  cried  the  sick  man.  "  There's  not 
a  power  in  the  land  could  move  the  Death-Way  : 
the  Queen  couldn't  do  it !  I've  heard  my  old 
father  say  a  hundred  times,  that  the  Death-Way 
was  here  long  afore  there  was  any  such  thing  as 
a  King." 

"  'Tis  as  old  as  Death,  belike,"  suggested  the 
visitor,  standing  by  the  door. 


THE   DEATH-WAY  25 

The  woman  nodded,  fl  He  can't  do  it,"  re- 
peated the  sick  man,  nodding  also.  "  I'm  eighty- 
three,  come  next  Christmas,  and  my  father  was 
eighty-seven,  when  he  went,  in  harvest-time, 
and  neither  of  us  has  known  of  a  man,  woman, 
or  child  that  died  in  this  hamlet  but  was  carried 
along  the  Death- Way  to  Overbeek  churchyard. 
Lord !  How  was  we  to  be  buried,  if  he  moves 
the  Death- Way  ?  Answer  me  that  ?"  He  half- 
lifted  himself  in  the  bed. 

"We  shall  have  to  go  round,"  replied  the 
more  laconic  visitor.  The  old  woman  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  reverted  to  the  peril  from 
which  the  great  tidings  had  diverted  her.  "Ye'll 
be  taken  along  quick  enough,  if  ye  go  on  like 
this!"  she  cried,  turning  to  the  bed.  "Doesn't 
the  doctor  tell  ye  every  time  he  comes  that  ye'll 
kill  yourself  by  moving  about  ?  " 

"He'll  have  to  go  round,"  said  the  visitor, 
who  had  passed  through  the  door. 

The  words  infuriated  the  invalid.  "Never," 
he  shouted,  regardless  of  his  wife.  "  Here,  Jan  ! 
Piet !  where  are  the  boys  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  the  pigs,"  replied  the  wife.  "  They'll 
be  back  in  a  minute  or  two.  There  was  a  butcher 
from  Wyk " 

"  What,  and  they  never  told  me  ?  How  much 
did  he  offer?  Do  they  think  I'm  dead  already? 
No,  not  by  ten  years  yet.  I've  a  better  constitu- 
tion than  my  father.  Look  here,  how  much  did 
you  say  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  was  only  a-come  to  have  a  look  at 


26  THE   DEATH-WAY 

them.     You'll  hear  all  about  it.     Lie  still,  father, 
do,  and  don't  talk ! " 

"  How  can  I  not  talk  about  the  Death- Way  ? 
And  as  for  not  moving! — I  wonder  how  much 
he'll  offer.  Pork  is  dear  just  now.  He  ought  to 
offer  twenty-two  cents!"  He  looked  round  at 
her  with  eager,  wistful  eyes.  "  D'ye  think  he'll 
offer  twenty-two  cents  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said,  walking  across  to  the  fire, 
and  removing  the  kettle.     "  Pigs  is  down." 

The  old  man  gave  a  faint  howl.  "  Like  my 
luck  I "  he  said.  "  I've  never  sold  yet,  that  some 
other  man  didn't,  sooner  or  later,  sell  dearer.  It 
might  be  twenty-one  and  a  half  now,  don't  you — 
oh!  oh!  oh!"  He  sat  up  in  bed,  bent  double 
with  internal  suffering,  his  face  grew  livid. 

The  wife  ran  up  to  him.  " Deary!  Deary 
me!     Is  it  one  of  your  spasms?"  she  cried. 

His  pains  prevented  his  answering :  they  in- 
creased upon  him :  she  hurried  to  and  fro  in  the 
chamber.  *  It's  all  your  fault,"  she  said  several 
times,  "  a-twisting  yourself  in  the  bed ! " — he  was 
in  too  great  pain  to  reply.  He  lay  forward, 
alternately  moaning  and  shrieking.  So  the 
doctor  found  him,  a  few  minutes  later.  The 
doctor  frowned. 

"What's  he  been  doing,  Vrouw  Putters?" 
demanded  the  doctor.  "  Jan  Putters,  who's  to 
blame  for  this  ?  " 

"  He  is,"  replied  the  wife.  "  He's  been  fussing 
and  fuming  about  the  Death-Way,  as  if  he 
was  a-going  to  be  taken  along  it  to-morrer!" 


THE   DEATH-WAY  27 

Then,  suddenly,  she  began  to  cry.  "  He  don't 
even  abuse  me,  doctor,"  she  sobbed.  "  He  can't 
get  to  do  it.  Lord,  what  a  bad  way  he  must 
be  in ! " 

"  He  is  in  a  bad  way,"  assented  the  doctor, 
who  had  been  removing  the  patient's  bandages. 
"  His— Heavens,  man,  hadn't  I  told  you  to  lie 
still  for  your  life  ?  Are  you  mad  that  you  want 
to  kill  yourself,  Jan  Putters  ?  " 

"  No,  nor  to  be  killed  by  a  doctor,"  retorted 
the  sick  man,  between  his  moanings. 

"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  have  a  try  at  that,  all 
the  same,"  replied  the  doctor  roughly.  "  I  must 
take  immediate  measures,  or  you  haven't  a  day 
to  live." 

The  wife  shrieked  pitiful  protests:  the  old 
man  turned  his  head  angrily  in   her  direction. 

"  Have  ye  never  heard  doctors'  talk  before  ?  " 
he  gasped.     "  I've  a  better  constitution  than  my 

— father "    Through  the  half-open  door  his 

two  stalwart  sons  came  in,  with  awkward  vigour 
and  a  smell  of  the  damp  outside.  "  Boys,"  he 
stammered,  "neighbour  Lops  has  been  here. 
Liza's  gone  like  me.  There's  something  wrong 
in  her  innards."  Then  he  fell  back,  gurgling: 
the  sweat  stood  on  his  brow. 

"You  must  help  me,"  said  the  doctor  to  the 
sons,  "  and  be  quick ! "  They  were  clumsy  :  they 
did  their  best.  No  deftness  of  doctor  or  assistants 
could  have  saved  the  sick  man  agonies  of  suffer- 
ing. When  at  last  the  operation  was  completed, 
he  lay  like  one  more  dead  than  alive. 


28  THE   DEATH-WAY 

"And  what  do  you  think  now,  doctor?" 
questioned  the  anxious  wife,  by  the  door. 

"  He  may  pull  through,"  replied  the  man  of 
science.  His  tone  was  very  serious :  he  put  up 
his  little  case. 

"  If  he  doesn't  move  ?  " 

"  If  he  doesn't  move,  of  course.  He  has 
brought  this  last  crisis  upon  himself." 

The  patient  faintly  opened  one  eye.  "  I  hear 
you,"  he  whispered  audibly.  "  My  constitu- 
tion  "  he  could  get  no  farther.     From  sheer 

fatigue  he  lay  silent  through  two  long  hours, 
while  the  twilight  gradually  glimmered  into 
gloom. 

Then  he  moved  his  head  and  called — in  a 
murmur — for  his  eldest,  Jan. 

u  Lift  me  up ! "  he  said,  as  his  son  bent  over 
him. 

"  Lord,  father,  didn't  you  hear  the  doctor 
say !" 

"  Lift  me  up ! "  The  son  had  never,  during 
fifty  years  of  his  life,  disobeyed  that  voice  :  he 
could  not  begin  now. 

"  D'ye  believe  in  doctors  ? "  continued  the 
father  with  a  sneer.  "  As  well  believe  in  vets. 
I  don't  need  a  doctor  to  tell  me  how  I  feel.  I've 
got  something  to  say.   Turn  the  old  'ooman  out." 

As  if  she  heard  them,  the  wife  glanced  across 
from  some  mess  she  was  concocting  for  the 
invalid.     "  Ye  must  die,  if  ye  want  to,"  she  said. 

"  Tell  her  the  chicks  are  running  loose ! " 
whispered  the  old  man. 


THE   DEATH-WAY  29 

"  Mother,  you  go  out !  "  said  the  son.  He  faced 
her  with  a  heavy  air  of  command.  She  looked 
him  silently  in  the  eyes  and  did  as  he  bade  her. 

The  old  man  chuckled  feebly.  "  You're  a  chip 
of  the  old  block/'  he  said.  "  Look  here,  Jan, 
doctor  or  no  doctor,  want  or  want  not,  my  time's 
come."  The  son  would  have  objected,  but  old 
Jan  stopped  him.  "  D'ye  think  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  live  for  ever  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Your  constitution "  began  the  son. 

"  Something's  gone  in  my  innards  :  I've  a-felt 
it  going.  The  farm's  very  small  and  poor,  but  I 
done  my  best.  I've  nothing  left  to  say  to  you  or 
Piet.  You'll  find  a  little  money  in  the  Bank. 
Now,  you  must  take  me  up  and  carry  me  into 
the  State  Chamber.  I  mean  to  die  where  my 
father  and  my  grandfather  died." 

"  I  can't,  father  :  it's  murder." 

"  Ye  can't  murder  a  dying  man,  ye  fool !  Stay  ; 
call  Piet,  so  they  can  say  it  was  both  of  you! " 

Piet  came  and,  between  them,  the  brothers 
carried  their  light  yet  clumsy  burden,  shuffling, 
across  the  little  passage.  Half-way,  stood  the  old 
woman,  lamenting.  The  old  man  took  no  notice, 
breathing  short,  in  loud  gaspings  of  pain. 

They  stumbled  into  the  " State  Chamber" — 
the  Best  Room,  close  and  stuffy  with  unused 
furniture  and  excluded  sunlight,  as  such  rooms 
are  apt  to  become.  It  was  dark  and  sombre- 
looking.  The  great  black  and  brown  cabinet 
shone  dully  in  the  half-light  beneath  its  weight 
of  delf.     In  the  wall  was  an  oaken  cupboard-bed, 


30  THE   DEATH-WAY 

with  panelled  doors  and  green  damask  curtains  : 
into  this  the  brothers  sank  their  burden  as  best 
they  could. 

For  a  long  time  Jan  Putters  lay  there  tortured. 
The  sons  stood,  lumpish,  beside  the  bed.  The 
mother  had  come  in,  trembling. 

At  last  he  opened  his  eyes.  "  Draw  the  blinds 
up !  "  he  whispered.  "  I  want  to  see  the  old  place 
once  more." 

There  was  not  much  light  left,  even  when 
they  had  let  in  all  they  could.  From  where  he 
lay,  he  could  just  see  the  front  of  the  "new" 
barn,  now  ten  years  old. 

"  'Tis  a  good  building,"  he  said,  aloud.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  a  couple  of  the  cows  again,  just 
for  once.  I've  been  ill  a  long  time,  a  week.  I've 
missed  the  cows.  I  should  like  to  see  a  cow 
again  before  I  go  where  there  ain't  any.  I  don't 
seem  to  mind  so  much  any  longer  which  I  see." 

All  this  he  had  spat  out,  with  great  labour,  in 
faint  jerks.  The  two  brothers  looked  at  each 
other:  the  younger  stole  from  the  room  and, 
presently,  in  the  falling  night,  a  massive  grey 
shape  appeared  beyond  the  nearer  window.  It 
stood  there  impassive  at  first :  then,  disconcerted, 
it  broke  into  a  melancholy  roar. 

"He's  chosen  'White  Bess,'"  said  the  elder 
son,  "so  you  could  see  her  better." 

"Take  her  away.  She  don't  want  to  stay 
there,"  replied  the  dying  man. 

Then  he  lifted  his  scraggy  grey  head  again 
and  hissed,  amid   suppressed  catches   of  pain  : 


THE   DEATH-WAY  31 

"Call  Piet!  Call  him  quick!  Call!"  The 
weeping  woman  ran  out. 

"  D her  crying,"  said  the  old  man,  "  but  I 

can't  do  it  to  her  face,  as  it's  for  me.  It's  the 
first  time,  Jan,  that  I  cannot  damn  your  mother 
for  doing  what  I  don't  want  her  to." 

In  spite  of  his  eagerness  he  lay  unable  to 
speak  to  them  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
after  the  mother  had  returned  with  Piet.  It  was 
fully  dark  now  outside :  a  candle  stood  ghastly, 
behind  the  bed. 

When  at  last  he  again  found  strength  and 
breath,  it  was  to  say  : 

"  Boys,  come  here !  " 

They  bent  over  him,  catching  at  his  words. 

"I'm  a-lying  here  a-dying,"  he  whispered 
solemnly,  "in  the  same  place  and  same  bed  as 
my  father  did,  and  his  father  afore  him.  I  ought 
to  have  had  at  least  five  years  more,  but  there's 
something  gone  wrong  in  my  innards  and  here 
am  I  a-dying  in  the  State  Chamber  as  I  ought  to 
be.  It  might  have  hurt  less,  but  that  can't  be 
helped.  Some  pigs  squeal  a  great  deal  more'n 
others.  I'm  glad  I'm  a-dying  in  the  State 
Chamber,  boys."  His  eyes  wandered  round  the 
splendours  of  the  apartment,  in  the  flare  of  the 
shaky  candle.     "Your  turn  now,"  he  said. 

The  two  sons,  both  grizzly  haired,  bowed 
their  heads  towards  him.  They  watched  him,  as 
he  lay  there,  far  into  the  night.  The  mother 
busied  herself  about  such  poor  nursing  as  lay 
within  her  scope.     Once  or  twice  he  cursed  her 


32  THE   DEATH-WAY 

feebly,  not  unkindly,  for  doing  something  awk- 
wardly, or  for  doing  it  at  all.  His  sufferings 
were  continuous. 

Shortly  before  the  end,  he  beckoned  his  two 
sons  down  close  to  his  lips.  "  Swear  that  you'll 
take  me  along  the  old  Death- Way,"  he  murmured. 
"  Swear." 

They  hesitated,  looked  at  each  other,  stam- 
mered that  the  Baron  was  making  changes,  that 
the  road  now  went  round  by  the  clump  of 

"  Swear  !  "  he  reiterated.  "  I  can't  die  till  I 
know  that  I'm  going  as  my  father  went.  It's  the 
road  that  we've  always  took.  The  Baron  can't 
change  it.  I — the  Death-Way — the — I — swear 
— swear ! " 

"  We  swear,"  said  the  sons. 

"  So  help  me — how  does  it  go  ?  " 

"  God,"  said  the  sons. 

An  hour  later  he  muttered  something  about 
the  price  of  pigs,  and  at  three  o'clock,  in  the  first 
chill  change  of  the  darkness,  he  said  distinctly  : 
"  My  constitution,"  and  died. 

The  doctor  came  just  before  breakfast.  "I 
told  you  so,"  said  the  doctor.  They  spoke  little, 
being  Dutch  peasants ;  but  the  widow,  looking 
askance  from  her  coffee-pot,  asked  mildly  if  any 
one  had  been  in  any  way  to  blame. 

"  Everybody  except  myself,"  replied  the  doctor 
promptly.  "  Imagine  his  being  moved  to  another 
room  after  what  I'd  said — and  done — last  night ! 
You've  killed  him,  and  he's  killed  himself." 

"  We  never  didn't  do  what  he  told  us  to  do," 


THE   DEATH-WAY  33 

expostulated  the  widow.  "We  couldn't  have 
begun  the  day  afore  he  died."  And  she  com- 
menced crying. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  doctor,  "what  you've 
got  to  do  now  is  to  make  arrangements  about 
the  funeral."  He  found  them  not  easy  to  manage, 
from  sheer  inertness.  They  had  never,  any  of 
them,  during  the  last  half-century,  initiated  any- 
thing— taken  any  step  that  had  not  been  pointed 
out  to  them ;  the  sons  had  remained  unmarried 
because  he  had  never  told  them  to  propose  to 
any  particular  girl.  It  was  impossible  for  them 
to  realise,  as  they  stood  by  the  dead  man,  that 
they  must  now  give  orders,  and  begin  by  giving 
them  about  him. 

The  doctor  helped  them,  and  the  parson,  and 
the  notary.  In  all  proposals  that  were  made  to 
them  they  reasonably  acquiesced.  They  went 
about  their  farm  duties  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. The  daily  round  of  duties  engrossed 
their  interest :  it  was  diversified  rather  pleasantly 
than  otherwise  by  the  mild  excitement  of  exhibit- 
ing the  corpse  to  every  neighbour  that  called. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral  relations  and 
acquaintances  assembled  in  considerable  num- 
bers. For,  next  to  a  wedding,  a  funeral  is  the 
most  gratifying  public  occurrence  in  the  dulness 
of  a  peasant's  daily  existence.  Compared  to  a 
funeral  a  christening  is  quite  third-rate.  There 
is  no  thrill  connected  with  a  christening. 

The  two  rooms  were  full  of  mourners,  a 
prominent  place  being  occupied  by  the  "weepers," 


34  THE   DEATH-WAY 

amazing  old  hags  in  black  cloaks  and  black  head- 
cloths,  relations,  expressly  invited  to  weep.  The 
widow  sat  beside  her  sons,  at  the  top  of  the 
"  State  Chamber,"  perfunctorily  pretending  to 
listen  to  the  minister,  and  frowning  with  annoy- 
ance whenever  one  of  the  weepers  stopped 
weeping  to  take  breath.  The  sons  said  "Yes" 
and  "  No "  to  everybody,  occasionally  wrong. 
They  both  fetched  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  head- 
mute  appeared  in  the  doorway,  announcing 
thereby  that  the  procession  must  get  ready  to 
start.  In  old  peasant  fashion  the  coffin  was 
placed  upon  the  dead  man's  waggon,  a  black  pall 
spread  neatly  over  the  waggon's  gaily  painted 
sides.  The  "weepers,"  swathed  in  black,  were 
hoisted  on  top  of  it.  The  male  mourners  came 
behind  in  rusty  beaver  hats,  twice  the  height  of 
our  modern  ones,  with  enormous  crape  streamers 
that  hung  limp  in  the  still  air. 

Slowly  the  little  company  went  wending  up 
across  the  sand-heath.  The  heavy  road  lay  white 
before  them,  enclosed  in  far  masses  of  purple 
bloom.  Above,  shone  the  sun  with  few  clouds 
around  him.  The  landscape  was  desolate  :  only 
once  or  twice  a  rabbit  stopped,  inquisitive,  and 
fled. 

In  the  loose  sand  the  horses  strained  and 
stumbled.  The  mourners  straggled,  two  and 
two,  with  a  peasant's  unsteady  gait.  The  two 
sons  came,  behind  the  waggon,  close,  their  coun- 
tenances set. 

From   the   open   heath    the  road  crept  into 


THE   DEATH-WAY  35 

brushwood ;  then  it  wound  into  fir-plantations 
and  so  into  the  beech-woods  of  a  park.  The 
hush  of  tall  stems  and  full  foliage  fell  upon 
it.  In  silence  and  shadows  the  little  company 
plodded  on. 

Suddenly,  the  white  path  came  to  a  stop, 
almost  with  a  jerk  as  it  were,  cut  off,  dead,  by  a 
dry  ditch,  a  small  embankment,  a  sharp  curve 
into  loose  brown  soil.  On  the  top  of  the  low 
earth-wall,  thrown  up  from  the  newly  dug  trench, 
a  white  board  fronted  the  advancing  peasants : 
"  No  Thoroughfare.  Trespassers  will  be  prose- 
cuted." The  head-mute,  some  few  steps  in 
advance,  came  to  a  halt,  in  a  twinkling  of  doubt ; 
then  he  swerved  to  the  right,  where  the  freshly 
hewn  trunks  lay  scattered  on  both  sides  of  the 
still  uncompleted  track. 

"  Stop  ! "  cried  Jan,  the  elder  son,  in  a  voice 
that  rang  up  to  the  green  canopy  above. 

11  Straight  ahead  !  "  he  continued,  pointing 
through  the  board.  "The  Death-Way  ! "  He 
had  left  his  place  behind  the  waggon,  coming 
forward,  his  brother  following  close.  The  cart 
stopped :  all  the  little  band  stood  immovable  in 
their  places,  not  understanding,  as  yet. 

"But  the  road  has  been  altered  by  the 
Baron,"  expostulated  the  undertaker.  "It  now 
runs " 

"The  Death- Way  lies  yonder!''  said  Jan. 
He  ran  to  the  horses'  heads  and  hoarsely  sum- 
moned the  old  women  to  get  down,  which  they 
did,  tumbling  over  each   other  with  surprising 


36  THE   DEATH-WAY 

agility.  Then,  calling  to  his  single  farm-servant, 
who  was  driving,  to  sit  tight,  and  to  Piet,  and 
a  couple  of  cousins,  to  steady  the  coffin,  he 
deliberately  dragged  the  struggling  animals  down 
into  the  deep  furrow,  for  it  was  little  more,  and 
up  again,  with  a  great  creaking  and  hoisting  of 
the  wheels  and  their  load,  over  the  low  earth- 
work to  the  other  side.  By  main  force  he  did  it. 
Then  he  shook  himself,  taking  breath,  and  quietly 
patted  the  horse  nearest  him.  "  So  ho !  "  he  said. 
Piet,  having  given  a  tug  at  the  pall,  to  straighten 
it,  came  and  stood  beside  his  brother. 

All  the  others  stared  curiously  and  shuffled. 
Some  hung  back,  glancing  at  each  other,  un- 
certain. 

"Those  of  you  as  want  to  turn  back  may 
turn,"  called  Jan.  "  I'm  a-going  to  take  my  father 
to  his  grave  by  the  way  that  his  father  went." 

"  Yes,  by  G ! "  said  Piet. 

Then,  ashamed  before  each  other,  they  all 
came  over  the  ditch,  some  jumping,  some  tumb- 
ling, as  a  flight  of  ravens  might  swoop  down 
upon  a  field.  For  some  hundred  yards  ahead  of 
them  the  old  Way  still  lay  untouched :  they 
moved  along  it,  wondering,  till  it  opened  on  to 
a  large  square  of  hard  gravel,  which,  although 
they  did  not  know  this,  was  a  new  tennis-court, 
not  yet  enclosed.  Two  young  girls,  who  had 
been  playing — white  figures — fled  as  the  funeral 
company  broke  from  among  the  brushwood 
upon  their  startled  view.  The  two  brothers  ad- 
vanced :  they  had  taken  the  place  of  the  terrified 


THE   DEATH-WAY  37 

undertaker.  Their  heavy  peasant  faces  were 
carved  in  stone :  they  kicked  aside  a  couple  of 
balls,  without  seeing  them,  till  they  stood  before 
the  tennis-net,  nonplussed,  for  a  moment  only : 
then  Jan,  now  unable  to  act  otherwise,  stooped 
and  with  a  steady  descent  of  his  long,  sharp 
knife,  sawed  the  net  asunder.  It  fell  away  on 
both  sides :  the  waggon  and  its  load  scrunched 
on.  Behind  it  sank  its  two  big  ruts,  across  the 
ruined  court. 

So  they  went  straight  ahead,  and  down  the 
central  alley  of  the  newly  planned  rose-garden. 
And  at  the  end  of  this  they  met  the  Baron's 
sunbonneted  babies  in  their  donkey-cart,  and  the 
young  Baron  himself  on  horseback  beside  his 
children. 

He  rode  up  to  them  at  once,  as  they  came 
steadily  towards  him  :  the  small  creatures  in  the 
low  carriage  held  back,  staring,  alarmed  at  the 
collection  of  black  scarecrows,  the  great  black- 
clothed  waggon,  with  the  dreadful  creatures  a-top. 
The  prosperous  donkey  cropped  up  his  ears. 

"And  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  im- 
periously demanded  the  Baron.  He  looked  very 
handsome  and  important,  in  his  leggings,  on  his 
showy  bay  mare. 

Jan  Putters  and  Piet  Putters  stood  opposite 
him.  They  drew  their  tall  hats  over  their 
eyebrows.  "  We  are  burying  our  father,"  they 
said  together.  "  By  the  old  Death- Way,"  added 
Jan. 

"  But  you  knew  I  had  altered  the  road !    You 


38  THE   DEATH-WAY 

saw  the  notice.  By  George,  you've  come  right 
across  the  tennis-court !  I'll  have  you  prosecuted ! 
I " 

"  Mynheer  the  Baron  has  no  right  to  alter  it," 
said  Jan,  while  all  the  others  gathered  round. 
"  The  Death-Way  belongs  to  us  all :  it  is  older 
than  any  Kings  or  Barons." 

"  No,  Mynheer  the  Baron  has  no  right,"  chimed 
in  Piet,  coming  to  his  brother's  assistance.  The 
others — the  most  courageous  of  them — muttered 
approval. 

"  Right  ?  No  right  ?  I  have  an  absolute 
right ! "  exclaimed  the  astonished  Baron.  "  There 
was  no  right  of  way  of  any  kind,  if  you  go  talking 
of  rights ! "  His  irritated  steed  sprang  aside. 
The  babies  screamed  :  the  Baroness  came  round 
to  them  out  of  a  shrubbery. 

Another  mother  had  also  joined  her  children  : 
the  old  woman  had  clambered  down  from  her 
perch  on  the  coffin  and  stood  trembling,  by  the 
Baron,  between  her  sons. 

"  You've  ruined  my  new  plantation ! "  shouted 
the  Baron,  endeavouring  to  steady  his  horse. 
"  I'll  summon  you !  You  shall  pay  for  the  damage, 
every  halfpenny ! " 

"  The  damage  ?  "  replied  Jan,  and  cast  a  scorn- 
ful glance  upon  the  tract  behind  him.  "  For  that 
we  will  pay,  if  necessary,  poor  as  we  are.  We 
can  pay  for  it"— he  turned  to  his  mother— "with 
the  things  that  are  in  the  State  Chamber — and, 
if  Mynheer  the  Baron  has  a  right  to  stop  up  the 
Death-Way,  the  Law  must  decide,  but  it  is  not 


THE   DEATH-WAY  39 

so ;  only  there  is  another  law  for  the  rich  and 
another  for  the  poor." 

"  Right !  You  shall  hear  of  my  right !  "  cried 
the  Baron.  He  drew  up  his  careering  steed 
straight  across  the  path  of  the  little  band. 

"  So  be  it,  Mynheer  the  Baron ! "  said  Jan. 
"  But  yonder,  behind  you,  is  the  end  of  the 
Death-Way.  Let  us  carry  our  dead  to  the 
churchyard." 

The  Baron's  horse  stood  where  it  stood,  with 
arched  neck  and  waving  tail. 

The  old  woman,  the  widow,  had  stolen  away 
to  the  Baroness  with  eager  entreaty.  "  Let  me 
bury  my  dead  in  peace  !  "  she  pleaded.  "  Oh,  if 
it  were  he  you  were  carrying  away,  and  you  I ! 
I  have  loved  him  and  obeyed  him  faithfully  for 
nigh  on  sixty  years.  It  was  his  last  command, 
high-born  lady,  I  must  obey  it." 

"What  can  I  do?  It  was  very  wrong," 
answered  the  young  Baroness,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

Then,  still  that  appeal  in  her  face  under  the 
grim,  nunlike  veiling,  the  old  woman  took  the 
great  lady  timidly  by  the  hand,  as  the  children 
nestled  closer,  and,  faltering  at  first,  but  with 
increase  of  purpose,  led  her  and  the  children  up 
to  the  Lord  of  the  Manor,  on  his  horse,  across 
the  path.  As  his  wife  and  his  little  ones  came 
close  to  him,  he  fell  back  :  the  woman  passed,  and 
the  little  procession,  the  coffin  with  the  silent, 
draped  figures  upon  it,  the  straggling  mourners, 
the  curious  mutes,  closed  in  and  passed  too. 


TUBERCULIN 

THE  cow  was  slowly  wandering  across  the 
sunlit  field.  She  flicked  her  tail  to  and  fro 
as  she  munched  the  faded  grass.  Up  here  among 
the  hills  the  food  was  not  what  a  first-rate  cow 
would  order ;  this  one  remembered  very  different 
pastures  not  more  than  six  weeks  ago.  But  cows 
cannot  state  their  wants,  like  human  beings,  and 
even  when  known,  those  wants,  as  sometimes 
with  human  beings,  are  scarcely  attended  to. 
The  grass  was  the  best  that  the  neighbourhood 
provided.  The  cow  appeared  to  chew  it  con- 
tentedly, but  that  may  have  been  a  human 
mistake.  At  any  rate,  she  chewed  it  again.  She 
was  certainly  unaware  of  the  notice  she  was 
attracting.  She  chewed.  And  she  stalked  on, 
flicking  her  tail.  There  was  grass,  of  a  kind,  to 
chew,  and  that  for  a  ruminative  cow,  in  a  world 
of  flies,  is  always  something.  It  is  said  that  they 
ruminate. 

"Is  she  or  is  she  not?"  said  one  of  the 
watchers.  Two  gentlemen  stood  by  the  stile  at 
the  bottom  of  the  field,  intently  contemplating 
the  cow.  One  of  the  gentlemen  was  a  young 
man  in  spectacles;  the  other,  somewhat  older, 
wore  the  habit  of  a  country  squire. 


TUBERCULIN  41 

Can't  you  see?  "  demanded  the  Squire." 
'  Most  certainly  not,"  replied  the  doctor. 

The  cow  lifted  her  head  and  munched. 

"Well,  she's  consumptive,  at  any  rate," 
laughed  the  Squire.  The  doctor  did  not  laugh. 
He  thought  the  remark  showed  a  levity  bordering 
on  intemperance.  The  Squire  looked  a  little 
bit  ashamed,  and  composed  his  face  to  meet  the 
seriousness  of  the  subject. 

"The  fact  remains  to  be  faced,"  said  the 
doctor,  "that  your  dear  little  daughter  refuses 
to  drink  her  milk  boiled,  as  she  ought  to  do." 

"  Yes,  bother !  "  said  the  Squire. 

But  the  doctor  corrected  him.  "It  is 
functional,"  said  the  doctor,  "a  nervous  con- 
traction of  the  trachea.  The  poor  child  is  quite 
powerless.  In  former  days  many  a  valuable  life 
has  been  sacrificed  from  physical  incapacity  to 
swallow  a  pill." 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  the  Squire. 

"Our  sweet  little  Anna,  then,  is  physically 
incapacitated  from  swallowing  boiled  milk,  yet 
her  constitution  imperatively  demands  a  quart 
of  that  nourishment  per  diem." 

"  Dear,  dear !  "  said  the  Squire.  He  would 
have  liked  to  use  some  stronger  word,  but  he 
only  flicked  his  boot. 

"Under  the  circumstances,"  continued  the 
doctor,  "the  natural  solution  presents  itself. 
Sterilise ! " 

"The  cow?"  asked  the  Squire. 

"No,  the  milk." 


42  TUBERCULIN 

"Why,  that's  been  tried,"  exclaimed  the  Squire 
impatiently.     "The  child  can't  endure  it." 

"  Quite  so.     Physically  incapacitated  again." 

"  That's  no  good,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  Another  means,  of  course,  remains." 

"  Which  ?  "  demanded  the  Squire. 

"  Pasteurise." 

"  Why,  that's  been  tried !  "  shouted  the  Squire. 

"  Quite  so.     Physically  incapacitated  again." 

For  a  moment  the  Squire  looked  at  the  doctor, 
as  if  some  idea  of  mental  incapacity  were  floating 
through  his  kindly,  bucolic  brain;  but  soon  he 
reasserted,  with  a  lurch,  his  respect  for  the 
science  of  which  he  knew  nothing. 

"Then,"  he  said  a  little  ruefully,  "the  child 
must  just  drink  her  milk  as  Nature  sends  it  her." 

The  doctor — whose  name  was  Tott — lifted 
up  hands  of  scientific  horror.  "Nature!"  he 
repeated,  "  my  dear  sir !  A  poor,  blind  purveyor 
of  microbes!  Would  you  expose  your  dear 
little  daughter — your  only  treasure — to  the  tender 
mercies  of  Nature  ?  " 

"  My  wife  won't  hear  of  it,"  said  the  Squire. 

"She  is  quite  right,"  answered  the  doctor 
severely. 

"  But,  good  Lord !  if  the  child  must  have  milk, 
and  can't  drink  it  sterilised,  Pasteurised,  boiled, 
or  raw,  then  how  in  the  name  of  goodness " 

The  doctor  held  up  his  appeasing  palm.  "  The 
resources  of  science,"  he  said,  "  are  infinite.  Have 
you  never  heard  of  Koch's  tuberculin  ?  " 

"  The  stuff  that  doesn't  cure  consumption  ?    I 


TUBERCULIN  43 

should  rather  think  I  have.  We  were  at  Wies- 
baden that  winter  when  the  whole  hocus-pocus 
got  known.  The  fearful  winter  of  '90  it  was,  and 
all  the  poor  invalids  started  off  for  Berlin,  and 
died  on  the  way !  " 

The  doctor  half  turned  aside,  with  a  hand  still 
uplifted  that  now  had  become  deprecatory. 

*  Oh,  well,  well !  "  he  said. 

"And  those  that  didn't  die  couldn't  procure 
any  when  they  got  there." 

"I  don't  remember  about  that,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  And  if  they  did  procure  it,  it  didn't  do  them 
any  good." 

"  But  it  has  an  effect  on  cows,"  said  Doctor 
Tott. 

The  cow  looked  round  at  them  and  slowly 
winked. 

"  It  may  not  cure  anybody  or  anything,"  said 
Doctor  Tott,  "  but  it  gives  a  cow  the  fever." 

"Well,  that's  something  to  be  thankful  for," 
said  the  puzzled  Squire. 

"  It  is  indeed,  for  by  its  means  we  can  ascertain 
whether  a  cow  has  tuberculosis  or  not." 

"And  cure  it,  when  it  has?"  said  the  Squire. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  doctor. 

"H'm,"  said  the  Squire.  "Well,  what  you 
mean,  I  suppose,  is  that  if  we  can  make  sure  the 
cow  is  perfectly  healthy,  then  the  child  can  safely 
drink  her  milk  raw." 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  But  typhoid  ?  "  ventured  the  Squire. 

"  There  is  no  danger  of  that  up  here.     There 


44  TUBERCULIN 

is  no  risk  of   anything    but  tuberculosis,   and 
Koch's  tuberculin  can  settle  that." 

"Then  give  her — the  cow,  I  mean — a  pill 
to-day." 

The  doctor  drew  himself  up,  huffy  all  over,  at 
last.    The  poor  Squire  stared  at  him. 

"I  am  not  a  veterinary  surgeon,"  said  Tott 
with  dignity,  "and  it  isn't — given  in  pills." 

"  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  I  will  communicate  with  the  proper  person," 
continued  Tott,  "  and  the  proper  person  will  make 
the  necessary  investigation  in  the  proper  way." 

"Quite  so," said  the  crestfallen  Squire.  "  Which 
vet.  would  you  recommend  ?  Keene  ?  I  have 
frequently  employed  Keene.  Good  chap.  Has 
picked  up  a  lot  of  desultory  information  about 
horses." 

"I  have  nothing  against  Keene,  but  I  should 
advise  a  younger  man,"  replied  Tott.  "One  of 
the  men  from  the  College.  Veterinary  teaching 
has  wonderfully  improved  during  the  last  ten 
years.  It  is  now  fairly  scientific.  Say  Larkin. 
I  should  recommend  Larkin,  from  Lyme.  An 
intelligent  investigator  is  Larkin." 

"  What !  The  young  man  with  half  the 
alphabet  behind  his  name  ?  All  right,"  said  the 
Squire.     "  And  you  think  this  cow  will  do  ?  " 

"  I  am  no  judge  of  cows,"  replied  Dr.  Tott. 
He  looked  impatiently  at  his  watch.  The  Squire's 
wife,  full  of  her  own  complaints  and  complainings, 
and  of  those  of  her  spoilt  little  only  girl,  was  the 
doctor's  best  permanent  investment ;  but  there 


TUBERCULIN  45 

are  limits,  and  the  jolly,  easily  puzzled  Squire, 
who  never  even  needed  a  powder,  was  not  a 
sympathetic  subject  anyway — at  least,  not  to  Dr. 
Tott. 

Old  Keene,  the  horse-doctor,  got  on  well 
enough  with  the  Squire,  and  had  even  given  him 
a  couple  of  hygienic  hints  for  himself,  which 
proved  by  their  success  how  much  the  constitu- 
tions of  all  animals  have  in  common.  Dr.  Larkin, 
looking  up,  recognised  this  fact.  Dr.  Tott, 
looking  down,  denied  it.  Denied  it,  in  spite  of 
vivisectionism.  "  A  cow  is  a  cow,  and  a  man  is 
a  man,"  said  Dr.  Tott  triumphantly.  "Not 
Doctor  Larkin,  I  think." 

Mr.  Larkin  then  stood  looking  at  the  cow 
with  the  Squire,  as  Dr.  Tott  had  done.  The  cow 
yawned.  Dr.  Tott  was  not  there,  and  Mr.  Larkin 
breathed  freely.  He  was  a  smart-looking,  bright- 
faced  young  man,  with  a  little,  yellow  moustache 
and  well-fitting  clothes.  He  had  to  look  horsey, 
so  he  wore  gaiters,  and  scientific,  so  he  wore 
spectacles,  to  his  own  lasting  regret  and  his 
young  wife's,  but  he  had  to,  because  of  Dr.  Tott. 
He  had  brought  the  tuberculin  and  the  syringe, 
and  so,  under  the  interested  eyes  of  the  Squire 
and  the  contemptuous  eyes  of  William,  the  cow's 
intimate  attendant,  he  inoculated  that  quadruped 
— more  contemptuous  than  William  and  less 
interested  than  her  master — with  an  injection 
under  the  right  breast. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  have  to  see  if  her 
temperature  rises.    Forty-eight  hours  sometimes 


46  TUBERCULIN 

elapse  before  that  takes  place.  During  the  next 
three  days  I  shall,  therefore,  come  over  from 
Lyme  four  times  a  day  to  take  her  temperature." 

u  Whew ! "  said  the  Squire.  He  was  wonder- 
ing, not  from  a  pecuniary,  but  from  the  comically 
puzzled  point  of  view,  what  his  little  daughter's 
scientific  cup  of  milk  was  going  to  cost. 

"  Four  times  a  day  ! "  he  repeated.  "  All  the 
way  from  Lyme !    That  seems  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"  Science,"  responded  the  vet.  almost  in  the 
same  accents  as  the  doctor,  "  doesn't  ask  about 
trouble.  It  demands  accuracy.  Science  is  accu- 
rate, or  it  is  not." 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes !  "  said  the  Squire. 

"  And,  therefore,  in  the  intervals  between  my 
visits  some  trustworthy  person  must  apply  the 
thermometer.  I  presume  you  are — ahem ! — to  be 
trusted,  my  man?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  William,  alarmed,  putting 
both  hands  behind  him. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the 
Squire. 

"  I'm  not  to  be  trusted  with  that  thing,  sir," 
exclaimed  William  in  a  frightened  voice.  "  I 
don't  understand  about  it— no,  I  don't,  sir.  And 
if  I  popped  it  in,  and  it  didn't  come  out  again, 
sir,  and  Miss  Anna  was  to  find  the  glass  in  her 
milk — and  they  do  say  as  that  silver  stuff  inside 
is  poison,  sir— and  I  couldn't  be  trusted  to  do  it 
— and  I  never  was  good  at  figures — and  please, 
sir,  I  don't  understand  no  more  about  it  than 
the  cow." 


TUBERCULIN  47 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  stupid !  "  said  his  master. 
"  The  doctor'll  show  you  how." 

"It'll  be  difficult," said  the  vet.  with  a  superior 
smile,  "but  I'll  do  my  best." 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  the  Squire,  frowning  good- 
humouredly.  "You've  been  to  school,  William, 
and  learnt  all  these  things,  as  all  you  people  do 
nowadays.  Why,  Mr.  Larkin,  all  the  Board- 
school  children  in  the  cities,  that  never  saw  a 
cow  in  their  lives,  learn  the  technical  names  of 
its  three  stomachs,  and  what  the  three  stomachs 
are  for." 

"  Four  stomachs,"  said  Mr.  Larkin,  and  his 
superior  smile  grew  transcendental,  "the  rumen, 
the  reticulum " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Squire  again  quite  hastily. 
"  I  belong  to  an  older  generation  than  William, 
and  I  must  say  I  don't  see  the  use  of  those  Latin 
names — not  even  for  me,  and  certainly  not  for  the 
future  factory  hands.   Now  be  attentive,  William. 

Good  day,  Mr. ,"  and,  whistling  to  his  dogs, 

the  Squire  walked  off. 

"  You  may  call  her  stomachs  what  you  like," 
said  William  to  the  vet. ;  "  it  don't  make  any 
difference  to  her." 

Mr.  Larkin  looked  at  the  quiet  young  farm- 
hand, with  the  healthy,  simple  face,  and  won- 
dered that  in  a  world  of  sagacious  animals  human 
beings  should  be  so  dense. 

"  This,"  he  said,  "  is  a  thermometer.  You're 
holding  it  wrong  side  up." 

"  Lor — I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  cried  William. 


48  TUBERCULIN 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.  If  you  let  it  drop, 
it'll  break ! " 

"  Lor— will  it  ?  "  cried  William. 

"Look  here — let  me  have  it  again,  please. 
These  are  figures  ! " 

"Are  they?  I  never  was  great  at  figures," 
said  William,  shaking  his  yellow  head.  "At 
school,  master  always  said  :  '  William,  you  can't 
even  take  care  of  number  one.' " 

"The  Squire  said  you  were  to  try  and  under- 
stand," cried  Larkin. 

"So  he  did,"  answered  William  contritely. 
"  I  do  hope  it  won't  hurt  my  cow." 

"What's  her  name?  Here,  Molly!  Polly! 
Bright  Eyes ! "  The  vet.  started  after  the  retreat- 
ing quadruped,  who  had  evidently  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  whole  proceedings,  including 
the  prick,  were  derogatory  to  her  dignity,  and 
who  now  marched  off,  her  nose  well  up  in  air. 

"Her  name  is  Sweet  William,"  replied  the 
cow's  faithful  caretaker,  with  conscious  pride,  as 
he  prepared  to  follow  his  charge.  "  Miss  Anna 
christened  her  so  herself.  She  said  it  was  her 
favourite  flower." 

Not  long  after,  when  the  vet.  had  departed, 
and  William  sat  pensively  contemplating  the 
little  glass  tube,  six-year-old  Miss  Anna  wandered 
into  the  field,  with  her  faithful  attendant,  Caro- 
lina, in  her  train.  Miss  Anna's  mother  had  often 
suggested  that  there  were  pretty  flowers  to  pick 
in  more  eligible  quarters ;  but  Miss  Anna,  whose 
early  taste  for  botany  must  on  no  account   be 


TUBERCULIN  49 

crossed,  stoutly  maintained  that  no  such  butter- 
cups were  to  be  found  anywhere  as  in  the  field 
where  the  cow  was,  whither  Carolina  therefore 
carefully  conveyed  her  about  the  time  that 
William  came  peeping  over  the  stile. 

"  What  bosh  it  all  is ! "  said  Carolina,  as 
William  explained  about  the  cow. 

Her  swain  grinned  from  ear  to  ear.  "  Isn't  it 
'xtrordinary,"  he  said,  "  for  a  man  like  master, 
that's  had  school  learning,  to  be  so  superstitious 
as  that  ?  He  really  believes  it,  too,"  said  William, 
shaking  the  yellow  head — *  believes  the  vet.  can 
see  if  the  creature  is  ill  or  not  by  putting  this 
little— my!  I  nearly  dropped  it! — tube  in  its 
mouth." 

"  Sweet  William ! "  said  Carolina,  in  accents  of 
rapt  admiration.  She  didn't  mean  the  cow.  In 
fact,  she  had  advised  the  selection  of  an  appro- 
priate appellation  for  the  quadruped,  so  that  she 
might  innocently  discourse  to  Miss  Anna  of  the 
biped  all  day.  "  Do  you  know  what  missus  said 
to  me  this  morning,  William  ?  "  continued  Caro- 
lina. "It's  you,  she  says,  that  puts  the  child's 
back  up  against  the  sterilised  milks.  Master'd 
never  have  thought  of  that.   And  it's  true,  ma'am, 

I  says,  and  I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  say  anything, 
but  Miss  Anna  sees  as  I  couldn't  drink  them 
myself.  And  I  couldn't.  Pah,  the  smell !  But 
boiled  milk,  says  missus.     Pah,  the  skins  !  " 

"  I   wonder,"  remarked  William  reflectively, 

II  what'll  they  do  with  the  poor  beast  if  the  vet. 
says  she  has  got  his  tubers !    D !  "—his  fresh 


50  TUBERCULIN 

face  grew  suddenly  dark  red  —  "That  fellow 
shan't  dispoge  of  her,  if  he  does  say  so.  I  can 
see  through  his  little  trick.  Taking  her  off 
master's  hands  for  a  song,  and  dispoging  of  her 
to  the  butchers  at  Lyme.  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Spout !  " 
He  added  viciously :  "  She's  the  best  of  the  lot. 
She  shan't  go  to  the  butchers,  in  any  case." 

The  good-natured  Squire,  who  always,  espe- 
cially after  a  vehement  "  No,"  did  what  his 
dependents  advised  him  to  do,  was  at  this 
moment  thumping  with  the  handle  of  his  riding- 
whip,  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement,  at  the  doctor's 
dispensary  door.  At  every  thump  his  mare 
squirmed  aside,  to  the  terror  of  the  small  boy 
who  held  her.  "  Whoa  !  Whoa,  my  girl ! "  The 
doctor  came  out. 

"  Good  heavens,  Tott ! "  cried  the  Squire, 
perspiring.  "  My  wife  has  just  told  me  that 
she's  eliminated— no — what  the  dickens  is  the 
word  I  want  ? — elicitated  from  Carolina  that 
she's  let  Anna  drink  twice — on  two  several 
occasions — of  the  cow's  milk — Sweet  William's 
milk — it's  the  cow's  name.  Anna  gave  it  her — 
raw  !    Raw,  Tott ! " 

"  It  is  frequently  not  fatal,"  said  the  doctor. 

"I  don't  mean  that.  What's  done  can't  be 
helped.  But  if  we  were  to  find  out  now — now, 
Tott — that  Sweet  William's  got— what  do  you 
call  it  ? — tuberoses— we  shouldn't  know  another 
happy  moment — not  one  of  us !  I  must  shoot  the 
beast  before  Larkin  comes  back— shoot  her!" 

The    Squire     stamped    around;    the    mare 


TUBERCULIN  51 

described  vast  semicircles  on  the  doctor's  gravel ; 
the  little  boy  bumped  about  like  a  ball. 

"  There's  no  cause,"  began  the  doctor,  and  his 
voice — and  the  smile  of  his  spectacles — were 
balmy,  "for  anxiety.  Even  if  the  cow  should 
show  symptoms  of  tu-ber-cu-lo-sis,  there  would 
be  no  cause.  At  present,  science  is  quite  uncertain 
whether  tu-ber-cu-lo-sis  can  be  communicated 
from  an  animal  to  man." 

*  Huh— h— h  ?  "  said  the  Squire. 

"  There  is  an  influential  opinion  that  it  cannot." 

The  mare  gave  a  bound  ;  the  little  boy  flew. 

"  There  is  another  that  it  can." 

"  Whoa ! "  cried  the  little  boy. 

"  Both  may  be  right." 

"Huh— h— h— h— h?"  said  the  Squire. 

11  Or  neither,"  said  Dr.  Tott,  closing  the  door 
as  politely  as  he  could,  in  a  farewell  bow  to  his 
interlocutor.  Tott  was  very  busy  at  the  moment. 
When  the  impatient  visitor  flew  at  the  door,  the 
doctor  had  been  half-way  through  with  a  roaring 
ploughboy's  rocking  tooth.  In  a  country  prac- 
titioner's experience  that  sort  of  thing  lasts  long. 
And  when  he  is  interrupted,  it  lasts  longer. 

The  Squire  rode  home  musingly.  But  he 
wasn't  any  clearer  by  the  time  he  alighted  in  his 
own  stableyard.  He  isn't  any  clearer  to-day. 
Nor  is  the  faculty. 

All  the  same,  he  heard  with  satisfaction  from 
William  that  the  thermometer  hadn't  stirred. 

"Leastways,  I  didn't  see  it  do  it,"  added 
William,  cautiously. 


52  TUBERCULIN 

Presently  the  vet.  came  bicycling  in  and 
careered  with  the  rest  of  the  party  after  the 
retreating  Sweet  William,  thermometer  in  hand. 

" However,"  repeated  the  vet,  "we  can  say 
nothing  with  certainty  for  the  next  forty-eight 
hours.  Of  course,  no  one  must  touch  her  milk, 
cooked  or  otherwise.     "  Throw  it  away  ! " 

"Of  course,  sir,"  said  William,  with  a  mild 
wink  in  his  mild  eye.  Thereupon  he  threw  it 
away  on  the  various  farm-servants  and  gardeners. 

But  two  days  later,  as  the  Squire  and  his  wife 
were  entertaining  a  large  circle  of  guests  who 
had  dropped  in  to  tea,  the  footman  appeared 
with  a  very  portentous  face  and  announced  that 
a  gentleman  was  anxious  to  see  his  master. 

"Gentleman?  Who?  Oh,  not  now,"  said 
the  Squire. 

"Yes,  I  think  my  dear  little  Anna  is  better, 
but  the  poor  child  wants  strengthening.  If  only 
we  could  get  her  to  drink  boiled  milk " 

"Why  don't  you  try  sterilised?  My  sister- 
in-law's  little  girl — oh,  no ;  now  I  remember,  it 
was  my  cousin  George's  dead  wife's  grand- 
father  " 

"  He  says  it's  very  important,  sir,"  ventured 
the  footman. 

With  a  half-impatient  shrug  the  Squire  went 
into  the  entrance-hall. 

"  Oh,  it's  you!"  he  said,  for  Mr.  Larkin  stood 
there. 

No  wonder  his  auspicious  mien  had  impressed 
even  the  footman. 


TUBERCULIN  53 

"  I  am  truly  delighted  to  be  able  to  inform 
you,  sir,"  he  cried  in  triumphant  tones,  "  that  the 
— the  cow  presents  absolutely  no  symptoms  of 
tubercular  infection.  She  may  be  declared 
sound!"  He  relished  this  statement  so  much 
that  he  repeated  it.     "  Declared  sound." 

The  Squire,  who  had  been  far  more  worried 
than  he  dared  admit  to  himself  about  the  past 
drinkings,  if  not  about  the  future,  ran  back  and 
threw  open  the  drawing-room  door.  "  Adelaide," 
he  cried,  "the  cow  is  sound  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  thankful !  So  grateful !  Yes, 
as  I  was  saying,  the  Pasteurised  milk  loses  all 
its  best  qualities  (so  the  papers  have  been  telling 
us),  and  boiling " 

"/boil,"  said  the  clergyman's  wife. 

"  But  now,  you  see,  the  cow  is  sound.  And 
the  vet " 

"  This  is  Mr.— Dr.  Larkin— ahem  !  "  said  the 
Squire.  The  doctor  stood  bowing  in  the  door- 
way. All  looked  at  him  with  much  interest; 
they  were  quite  a  numerous  party,  and  all,  of 
course,  gone  on  hygiene — the  attempt  to  keep 
their  rather  useless  bodies  a  little  longer  than 
otherwise  undead. 

"  We  are  so  grateful  to  you,  Dr.  Larkin  ! " 
cried  the  unbalanced  Adelaide.  "  I  feel  that  you 
have  saved  my  daughter's  life  ! "  There  was  a 
thrill.  The  vet.  blushed,  had  a  cup  of  tea,  agreed 
that  the  weather  was  hot  for  the  time  of  year, 
and  departed.  In  the  hall  he  said  to  the  Squire 
(while  they  were  hunting  for  his  hat,  which  he 


54  TUBERCULIN 

had  left  in  the  drawing-room):  "It  would  be 
advisable  to  renew  this  investigation  every  three 
months." 

"  No,  no ;  for  the  present  we  shall  specially 
reserve  this  one  cow." 

"  That's  what  I  mean — examine  this  cow.  She 
is  perfectly  healthy  now,  but  of  course  she  may 
become  infected  to-morrow." 

"She  may?"  The  Squire  stood  aghast. 
"  Why,  then,  if  you  wanted  to  make  sure,  you 
ought  to  examine  her  milk  every  day,  and  not 
drink  the  milk  on  the  day  of  the  examination." 

"  Well — yes,"  said  the  vet. 

"  And  that  seems  to  you  reasonable  ?  "  asked 
the  Squire  discreetly. 

"Perfectly  reasonable.  But  we  can  be  con- 
tented with  approximative  certainty." 

"  My  wife  won't  be." 

"The  risk  of  infection  is  small  up  here." 
Somebody  had  brought  his  hat.  He  stopped  on 
the  steps.  "  Of  course,  the  person  who  milks 
her  must  be  perfectly  healthy— that  goes  without 
saying.     Else " 

"Else  what?" 

"I  could  not  be  responsible  for  the  con- 
sequences." 

"  Is  it  certain  that  the  infection  passes  from  a 
man  to  a  beast " 

"  Koch  says  not,  but  Klausen  says  yes." 

"  Hang  Klausen !  William's  healthy  enough. 
Oh — Good  Heavens! — he  had  a  very  bad  cold 
last  winter." 


TUBERCULIN  55 

"  Did  he  cough  ?  " 

"Yes,   he  coughed  a    lot.     His  old   mother 
fancied  he  was  going  off  in  a  decline." 

"You  had  better  send  for  Dr.  Tott  at  once," 
said  Larkin,  getting  on  to  his  bicycle. 

The  Squire  ran  after  him  down  the  drive. 
"  Couldn't  you — inoculate — William  ?  "  he  gasped. 

The  vet.  hung  on  his  bicycle.  "No  good 
with  human  beings,"  he  cried. 

"But  William  is  such  a  great  calf!"  almost 
sobbed  the  Squire. 

The  vet.  felt  that  in  matters  scientific  such 
levity  approached  nearly  to  drivel. 

The  Squire  went  back  to  his  wife  and  abused 
science,  but  she  pointed  out  to  him  how  easy  it 
is  to  condemn  what  you  don't  understand.  One 
lady  was  busy  praising  a  new  condensed  milk 
for  infants.  "But  the  nourishment  is  insuffi- 
cient, I  understand,"  she  said,  "  after  their  fourth 
year." 

"  I  always  boil  mine,"  said  the  clergyman's 
wife. 

On  this  evening,  of  all  evenings,  little  Anna 
elected  to  be  fretful  and  to  demand  the  raw  milk 
which  had  been  surreptitiously  supplied  to  her, 
before  all  this  rumpus  began,  by  her  repre- 
hensible maid.  "  I  daren't  now ! "  cried  the  dis- 
tracted Carolina.  Next  morning  a  messenger 
was  sent  post-haste  for  Dr.  Tott,  who  affectedly 
grumbled,  sotto  voce,  up  to  the  library  door  and 
entered  with  a  perfunctory  smile.  The  Squire 
and    his  wife  were   there    together,   solicitude 


56  TUBERCULIN 

written  in  every  wrinkle  of  their  brows.  "Oh, 
doctor  !  "  cried  the  lady.  At  that  cry  of  faith  and 
need  Tott  relented.    He  beamed  on  the  pair. 

"Little  Anna  won't  touch  her  boiled  milk!" 
sobbed  the  mother. 

"  But  I  hear  that  Sweet  William  is  all  right ! " 
cried  Dr.  Tott. 

U  It  isn't  Sweet  William  now  :  it's  William," 
interposed  the  Squire  hastily.  "You  must  find 
out  at  once,  please,  that  William  hasn't  got 
what's-his-names,  or  he'll  be  giving  them  to  the 
cow." 

"  Hasn't  got  what's-his " 

"  Yes.     Auscultate    him,   doctor — that's    the 

word,  isn't  it  ?    Let's  go  and  find  him  at  once " 

The  Squire  ran  for  his  cap. 

"  I  can  auscultate  him  as  much  as  you  like," 
said  the  doctor  coldly,  "  but  that  won't  enable  me 
to  certify  him  free  from  tuberculosis." 

The  Squire  stopped  in  the  doorway.  His 
face  went  quite  red.  "Then  what,  in  the  name 
of  all  that's  reasonable,  will?" 

"Nothing  will.  Science  hasn't  got  as  far  as 
that  yet.  We  shall  in  time.  Meanwhile,  Koch's 
tuberculin " 

"Enables  you  to  say  that  a  cow's  milk  is 
harmless  on  the  day  when  you  mayn't  drink  it !  " 
burst  out  the  Squire. 

The  doctor  took  no  notice.  "  I  advise  you  to 
choose  a  man  who  hasn't  had  a  chest  attack. 
William  was  certainly  bad  last  winter.  He 
seems  all  right  now." 


TUBERCULIN  57 

44  Of  course  he's  all  right.  What  am  I  to  say 
to  him  ?  " 

"Oh,  Horace,  best  make  sure,"  put  in  little 
Anna's  mamma. 

44  You  can  say  that  he's  not " — a  happy  thought 
struck  the  doctor — "not  clean  enough !  " 

44  Oh,  I  say,  I  can't  do  that !  A  smarter  farm- 
hand never  stepped." 

The  Squire  walked  out  at  the  window;  the 
doctor,  at  the  lady's  appeal,  followed  after  him. 
44  I  can't  be  such  a  brute  as  that,"  said  the  Squire, 
with  rueful  countenance,  striding  away  towards 
the  paddock.  He  waited  for  the  doctor  to  catch 
him  up. 

14  If  we  get  a  man  who's  never  coughed,  we 
shall  be  all  right  ?  "  he  asked. 

44  As  far  as  human  certainty  goes,  yes,"  said 
the  doctor. 

44 1  thought  scientific  certainty  was  certain," 
replied  the  Squire  crossly.  4I  Well,  I've  thought 
out  what  I  can  do  about  William,  and  I  dare  say 
I'll  find  my  man.  There  William  goes — hi, 
William  !  how's  the  cow?" 

44  Doing  beautiful,  sir.  She's  given  a  pailful 
of  cream  this  morning." 

44 You're  hyperbolical,  William;  but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
that  I've  been  planning  for  some  time  to  give 
you  the  under-keeper's  place  and  the  cottage, 
now  that  old  John's  dead." 

44  It's  very  good  of  you,  sir,  very  good  indeed." 
14  Well,  what  more  ? "     The  Squire  always, 


58  TUBERCULIN 

in  his  good  temper,  investigated  his   servants' 
feelings  too  far. 

"  I  was  only  thinking,  sir,  I  should  be  a  bit 
lonely  at  first.  My  mother  couldn't  leave  the 
others,  and  I  shouldn't  think,  of  course,  of  taking 
away  Carolina  from  Miss  Anna." 

"No, you  mustn't  do  that,"  said  the  crestfallen 
Squire.  The  doctor  had  hung  back;  he  now  came 
hurrying  up — they  were  close  to  the  paddock. 

"Why!"  he  spluttered.  "Why!  Why! 
There's  another  cow  in  there  with— how's  that  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  you  see,  sir,  she  was  lonesome 
after  all  the  fuss  there's  been  about  her,"  said 
William,  smiling.  "She  was  lowing  so,  I  put 
another  in  with  her  last  night,  when  it  was  all 
over,  to  keep  her  company." 

"To  keep  her  company!"  shouted  the  doctor. 
"To  infect  her."  He  turned  to  the  Squire. 
"You  can  begin  the  whole  thing  over  again," 
he  said. 

"  Oh,  d n ! "  said  the  Squire.     He  said  the 

whole  three  syllables   out  loud,  and  he  wasn't 
sorry  afterwards,  in  William's  presence. 

Without  exchanging  another  word,  the  two 
gentlemen  retraced  their  steps.  The  doctor 
thought  the  Squire  was  a  very  ill-tempered  man. 
Really  almost  his  best  quality  was  his  invalid 
wife.  That  lady  stood  waving  a  paper  from  the 
terrace  before  the  house. 

"  A  letter  from  Mary,"  she  cried.  "  She  was 
talking  to  me  yesterday  of  a  wonderful  condensed 
milk  in  jars.     It  appears  that  it  does  wonders." 


TUBERCULIN  59 

"Deleterious/'  said  the  doctor.  He  was  a 
kind-hearted  creature,  but  he  would  gladly  have 
devised  mediaeval  punishments  for  these  amateur 
proposers  of  remedies.  With  a  leap  he  reasserted 
his  medical  position. 

"  If  you  really  abandon  the  idea  of  raw  milk/' 
he  said,  "  and  you  know  that  I  never  advocated 
it,  then  there  is  a  new  German  method  of  de- 
bacteriolising,  which  leaves  the  taste." 

"And  the  strength?"  queried  the  Squire. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  his  patient's  yellow 
face. 

"  And  the  strength,"  he  said. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  tell  us  before  ?  " 

"  Because  dear  little  Anna  insisted  on  having 
her  milk  raw.  And,  besides,  this  is  quite  a  new 
thing ;  I  only  read  of  it  last  week." 

"  Heaven  be  thanked ! "  said  the  Squire. 

"  If  only  the  child's  nurse  is  reasonable  about 
it,"  remarked  Dr.  Tott. 

"  We  must  see  about  that,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  interfere  in  any  way," 
persisted  the  tormented  Tott,  "  but  has  it  not 
occurred  to  you,  madam,  that  the  nurse's  authority 
over  our  little  Anna  is  almost  too — too  pre- 
ponderating? The  dear  child  sees  with  the 
maid's  ears — eyes,  I  mean  —  and  tastes,  so  to 
speak,  with  her  tongue.  Is  there  no  danger  that 
a  mother's  sweet  guiding  influence  may  be— I 
would  not  say,  undermined?" 

Anna's  delicate  mother  sat  up  with  astonish- 
ing rapidity. 


60  TUBERCULIN 

"You  are  quite  right,  doctor,"  she  said. 
"  The  same  thought  has  occurred  to  me.  Carolina 
had  better  go.  What  a  man  of  discrimination 
you  are ! " 

The  Squire,  ere  the  last  sentence  had  been 
spoken,  was  already  out  of  the  room  hunting  up 
Carolina.  He  called  her  away  from  little  Anna's 
box  of  bricks. 

"  Carolina,  you  like  to  drink  your  milk  raw," 
he  said. 

She  eyed  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 
She  had  heard  of  Sweet  William's  good  health. 

"  Oh,  the  little  /  takes,  sir  ! "  she  said  ;  "  but 
it's  Miss  Anna " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Now,  look  here !  There's 
a  new  milk  coming.  If  Miss  Anna  likes  that — 
you  understand  me — I'll  give  William  old  John's 
cottage  and  his  place.  If  she  likes  it;  you 
understand  ?  " 

"I  understand,  sir,"  said  Carolina,  her  eyes 
on  the  floor. 

"And,  if  she  likes  it  awfully,  there  may  be 
some  bits  of  sticks — odds  and  ends  that  we  don't 
want — to  help  furnish  that  cottage,  Carolina." 

"  Oh,  sir  ! "  said  Carolina. 

But  the  Squire  had  taken  himself  off.  Best 
leave  his  words  to  sink  in. 

"Poof!"  he  said,  and  again  sought  the 
fresh  air. 

"How  about  Sweet  William,  sir?"  said 
Sweet  William's  namesake,  softly,  at  his  elbow. 

"  Take  her  away  ! "    cried  the  Squire.      "  I 


TUBERCULIN  61 

never  want  to  hear  her  name  again !  Carry  her 
off!  Make  whatever  you  can  of  her  !  Dispose 
of  her,  William!" 

"  My  beauty/'  said  William,  with  his  lips  to 
the  cow's  ear,  "  I'll  dispoge  of  you.  Your  milk 
won't  give  me  the  tubers,  nor  Carolina,  nor  the 
kids  that'll  turn  up  in  the  cottage  some  day." 


PRAYER 

THE  preacher's  voice  sank  drowsily  upon  the 
drowsing  heads  below.  In  the  little  white- 
washed chapel,  with  its  closed  windows  and 
closed  doors  and  enclosed  multitude  of  smells, 
the  atmosphere  was  one  of  physical  and  mental 
suffocation.  Outside,  the  August  sun  shone 
bright,  and  green  branches  lay  fresh  against  the 
dusty  windows.  The  minister's  chickens  grubbed 
and  clucked  against  the  walls. 

In  the  minister's  pew,  where  all  eyes  could 
behold  them  and  criticise,  sat  his  children,  beside 
their  mother,  in  a  row.  There  were  seven  of 
them  :  the  smallest,  Peterkin,  aged  three,  tight 
against  her,  the  others,  in  a  yellow-headed  ladder, 
leading  up  to  the  stepbrother,  the  big  boy,  Jan 
Somers,  aged  eleven. 

For  the  minister's  wife  had  been  a  widow 
with  one  child  when  she  had  married  him,  a 
woman  of  some  means  and  some  culture,  alto- 
gether above  the  status,  social  and  mental,  of  the 
minister. 

She  had  loved  her  first  husband,  Captain 
Somers,  but  she  had  deeply  regretted,  too  late, 
his  want  of  religion.  She  herself  had  been 
suddenly  converted  at  an  open-air  meeting  and 


PRAYER  63 

she  was  sorrowfully  vexed  with  her  husband  for 
not  sharing  her  experiences.  When  he  died  by 
a  fall  from  his  horse  in  the  plenitude  of  his 
health  she  was  stricken  down  to  the  dust. 
Rotteval;  the  Methodist  minister,  administered 
much  consolation,  and  in  the  course  of  doing  so 
married  her.  With  the  curious  inconsistency 
of  her  co-religionists  she  accepted  her  first 
husband's  incontrovertible  damnation  as  an  in- 
evitable fact  and  tranquilly  left  him  to  the  mercy 
of  God,  while  proclaiming,  as  a  tenet  of  her  creed, 
that  God's  mercies  were  confined  to  the  living. 

Within  five  years  she  bore  Rotteval  six 
children,  and  the  means  which  had  amply  sufficed 
for  herself  and  her  little  Jan  appeared  inadequate 
to  keep  filled  with  any  comfort  half-a-dozen 
gaping  mouths  and  a  Methodist  chapel.  The 
new  husband  proved  exacting.  His  standard 
was  himself. 

The  boy  Jan,  occasionally  drawn  forth  to  his 
father's  people  from  the  increasing  discomfort  of 
his  own  home,  returned  thither,  disconcerted, 
out  of  joint.  His  grandfather,  his  uncles,  all 
heartily  abused  the  hypocrite  Rotteval,  while 
conscientiously  hushing  each  other  with  nods  in 
the  direction  of  the  child.  Before  Jan  Somers 
was  ten  he  had  grasped  the  situation  as  it 
presented  itself  to  his  dead  father's  relatives; 
he  placed  the  Somerses  much  higher  and  the 
Rottevals  much  lower  than  was  consistent  with 
an  unknown  reality,  and  himself  with  his  mother 
hung  wretchedly  between. 


64  PRAYER 

Instead  of  reproaching  his  mother  he  clung 
to  her,  as  so-placed  children  will,  with  all  his 
heart  and  soul.  And  he  loved  all  his  little  step- 
brothers and  sister  devotedly,  reserving  his 
indignant  contempt  for  the  man  who  had  given 
him  them. 

"The  unending  damnation  of  the  damned," 
droned  the  minister,  without  a  tinge  of  feeling  in 
his  voice.  Jan  knew  the  familiar  rise  and  fall  of 
the  words  which  left  his  heart  untouched.  At 
grandfather's  they  told  you  that  death  was  death; 
there  was  nothing  beyond.  You  dropped  like  a 
fly,  or  went  out  like  a  lucifer  match.  You  knew 
nothing  of  these  things.  Death  was  profoundly 
uninteresting.  He  followed  with  impatient  eyes 
a  buzzing  bluebottle  against  the  whitewash, 
longing  to  catch  it  and  hold  it  tickling  in  his  fist 
and  let  it  go. 

The  minister's  was  a  Dutch  sermon  :  he  droned 
for  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half.  There  are  no  clocks 
in  such  chapels,  for  a  very  good  reason,  but  no 
clock  could  have  induced  him  to  be  shorter. 

Half-way  he  said  "  Damned "  with  an  extra 
emphasis  of  pause  and  contemplation.  His  eyes 
wandered  round  the  little  assembly ;  everybody 
woke  up,  and  two  collections  took  place  to  the 
tinkle  of  little  bells  at  the  end  of  black  bags, 
while  a  psalm  tune  meandered  through  the 
building  at  the  rate  of  three  words  to  ten  seconds. 
Jan  had  measured  the  pace  one  day,  by  the  aid 
of  the  silver  watch  his  grandfather  had  given 
him,  and  been  whipped  on  the  Monday  morning 


PRAYER  65 

for  looking  at  the  time  during  church.  Yet  what 
did  he  care  about  the  time  ?  He  knew  they  were 
half-way  when  he  had  put  his  two  cents  into  the 
double  collection :  and  the  hour  would  elapse 
before  he  could  escape  into  the  open.  Nor 
indeed  was  there  any  real  escape,  on  the  Sunday, 
from  the  two  services  and  Sunday  school  and 
the  talk  in  between. 

It  is  not  true,  as  some  people  have  stated, 
that  Rotteval  intentionally  ill-treated  his  stepson. 
Still  less  can  it  be  maintained  that  the  man  was 
a  hypocrite.  His  religion  was,  of  its  kind, 
sincere.  It  was  of  his  own  making  and  he 
proportionately  believed  in  it.  Its  principal 
conviction,  unconsciously  suffusing  every  action 
or  conclusion,  was  that  human  nature  had  by 
sin  become  so  hopelessly  corrupt  that  Simon 
Rotteval,  being  human,  was  infallible.  Moreover, 
every  man,  woman  or  child  was  hopelessly 
damned,  unless  elect,  and  must  therefore  be 
saved.  Personally,  he,  Simon  Rotteval,  was 
elect,  and  his  wife,  and  his  half-dozen  children. 
The  future  state  of  the  naughty,  hardening  step- 
son could  not  be  so  certain.  It  followed  that, 
while  all  young  hearts  should  be  whipped  into 
goodness,  the  stepson,  in  his  own  interest,  being 
oftenest  naughty,  must,  for  love  of  the  child 
himself,  be  most  frequently,  regretfully  chastised. 

Therefore  there  was  much  correction  in  the 
house  of  Rotteval,  and  the  mother,  when  her 
fond  instincts  objected,  was  always  effectually 
silenced  by  texts  from  the  Book  of  Proverbs. 


66  PRAYER 

She  surrendered  unconditionally  to  the  Book  of 
Proverbs.  She  could  stand  up  against  Rotteval 
when  his  ideas  clashed  too  much  with  her  gentler 
upbringing,  but  not  against  Rotteval  backed  by 
Holy  Writ. 

So  little  Jan  was  solemnly  spanked,  caned  and 
flogged,  with  the  progress  of  his  ages,  into  good- 
ness not  only,  but  into  active  piety.  Never 
slapped  or  cuffed,  for  that,  in  the  executant,  might 
be  dictated  by,  or  at  any  rate  ascribed  to,  temper, 
while  a  solemn  ceremonial,  preferably  postponed 
till  the  day  after,  with  much  deploring  of  evil 
and  depreciation  of  boy  nature,  and  glorification 
of  the  Rod,  could  never  be  otherwise  explained 
than  by  that  passionate  love  of  amelioration  which 
enables  a  heavy-hearted  (and  handed)  preceptor 
to  endure  the  sufferings  he  bestows  upon  another. 
"I  could  not  feel  it  more,  were  he  one  of  my  own," 
said  the  stepfather  to  the  mother.  She  believed 
him. 

To  say  that  Jan's  heart  was  thus  forcibly 
inclined  not  only  to  obedience,  but  to  active  piety, 
is  no  exaggeration.  For  Rotteval  was  of  those 
who  believe  that  the  terrors  of  religion  alone 
appeal  to  the  natural  man.  He  beat  tthe  Bible 
into  his  children,  filling  them  with  minatory 
and  condemnatory  passages  which  he  painfully 
underlined. 

On  the  Sunday  morning  in  August,  to  the 
drowsy  congregation,  his  discourse  was  of  prayer. 
He  repeated  the  usual  commonplaces  about  that 
greatest  of  living  mysteries,  the  meeting  of  the 


PRAYER  67 

human  will  with  the  divine,  and,  being  compelled 
to  preach  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  he  repeated 
them  over  and  over  again.  Jan  was  not  listening. 
He  was  not  an  imaginative  boy,  healthy,  happy- 
go-lucky,  full  of  play,  but  he  had  felt  long  ago, 
in  his  sound  little  heart,  that  his  stepfather  was 
mistaken  on  the  whole  about  God,  and  that  in 
no  case  would  it  be  possible  for  him,  Jan  Somers, 
to  love  both. 

"  I  am  sure  God  is  a  gentleman,"  the  little  boy 
had  once  said  to  one  of  his  uncles,  "  and  '  papa ' 
is  not." 

The  uncle  had  laughed,  a  foolish  habit  in 
intercourse  with  children. 

"There  isn't  any  God,"  he  had  answered, 
"but,  of  course,  if  there  were,  you  would  be  right." 

Jan  Somers  did  not  believe  his  uncle — any 
more  than  he  believed  Mr.  Rotteval.  For,  doubt- 
ing of  his  own  clear-spoken  conscience,  he  had 
applied  to  his  mother,  and  she,  drawing  him  to 
her  bosom,  had  murmured  eagerly  of  our  Father 
which  is  in  Heaven. 

"  Don't  tell  papa,"  she  had  said  as  she  loosened 
her  hold,  "for  he  wouldn't  understand." 

The  tears  which  had  gathered  in  Jan's  eyes 
dried  to  salt. 

"Ask  whatsoever  you  will,"  said  the  preacher 
for  the  twentieth  time,  "and  if  your  will  be  in 
unison  with  the  Lord's,  He  will  grant  your 
request." 

Little  Jan  had  heard  only  the  text,  and  the 
text,  ringing  like  a  refrain  throughout  the  sermon 


68  PRAYER 

— he  would  have  to  say  it,  without  a  hitch,  before 
dinner— had  easily  got  itself  stuck  in  his  head  : — 

"And  all  things,  whatsoever  ye  shall  ask  in 
prayer,  believing,  ye  shall  receive." 

He  was  not  yet  twelve.  After  his  twelfth 
birthday  he  would  have  to  repeat  as  much  as  he 
could  remember  of  the  sermon.  He  used  to  think 
sometimes  with  vague  terror  of  the  Sundays 
when  he  would  be  more  than  twelve.  Meanwhile, 
on  this  particular  Sabbath  morning  he  comforted 
himself  with  the  very  utterances  of  Scripture, 
not  heeding  a  syllable  of  his  stepfather's  jargon 
all  around  them.  The  promise  opened  up  to 
him  a  source  of  power,  hitherto  unsuspected,  of 
boundless  possibilities.  A  little  boy  was  omni- 
potent. Whatever  he  asked  the  Almighty  to 
do  the  Almighty  was  bound,  by  His  own  pledge, 
to  perform  it. 

"  If  I  ask  God  to  make  me  win  Everard  Over- 
veld's  blood-alley,  He  must  do  it,"  he  thought. 
For,  like  all  children  nurtured  upon  dogma,  he 
was  ever  ready  to  be  misled  by  a  new  aspect  of 
a  text.  He  nodded  stealthily  to  little  Peterkin, 
at  the  other  end,  close  to  mother.  "  If  I  get  the 
blood-alley,  I'll  ask  Him  to  make  Peterkin  strong," 
he  reflected.  For  Peterkin  was  a  delicate  creature. 
But  Peterkin  tried  hard  to  stare  straight  ahead. 
Jan,  whom  all  the  stepchildren  adored,  was 
constantly  getting  scolded  for  misbehaviour  in 
church. 

At  last  the  long  service  was  over ;  the  children 
walked  home.    Jan  had  been  looking  forward  to 


PRAYER  69 

the  fresh  air  and  the  sunshine.  Once  out  in  them, 
he  felt  disappointed.  The  air  was  still  stifling ; 
the  light  made  him  giddy  in  a  way  it  had  never 
done  before.  The  fields  swam  before  his  eyes, 
and  a  hot  something  pricked  and  throbbed  in 
his  throat. 

When  all  were  already  gathered  around  the 
table  the  father  came  hurrying  in.  He  was  a 
tall,  fat  man  with  the  regulation  rusty  clothes 
and  oily  skin  and  solemn  manner.  He  cast  a 
comprehensive  glance  over  the  dinner,  in  the  act 
of  sitting  down,  with  a  sigh.  Then  his  eyelids 
sank  slowly  and  his  important  voice  orated  a 
grace. 

"  I  was  detained,"  he  began,  with  his  spoon  in 
the  soup,  "by  the  Widow  Koppers,  who  was 
again  sorely  troubled  about  her  soul." 

"I  wish  she  wouldn't  be  troubled  at  meal- 
times," objected  Mevrouw  Rottenval. 

The  minister  reproachfully  shook  his  head. 
"It  was  the  sermon,"  he  said.  "The  blessed 
result  of  my  unworthy  discourse "  He  sud- 
denly checked  himself,  spoon  in  mid-air.  "  By- 
the-by,  Jan,  you  have  not  yet  repeated  your 
text ! " 

Jan,  who  was  swallowing  slow  mouthfuls 
with  a  difficulty  he  had  never  experienced  before, 
cleared  his  throat,  and  prepared  himself  for  utter- 
ance. To  his  horror  he  realised  that  the  carefully 
noted  verse  would  not  come  at  command.  It  was 
gone  from  him  altogether.  There  was  only  a 
singing  in  his  head. 


70  PRAYER 

All  the  children  waited.  A  drop  of  soup  fell, 
with  a  splash,  from  the  stepfather's  spoon. 

"  I — I  don't  remember,"  said  Jan.  "  It  was 
about  prayer." 

The  minister  carefully  deposited  the  spoon 
in  his  plate.     "  Don't  remember !  "  he  echoed. 

"Oh,  Jan,  you  must  remember/'  pleaded  the 
mother;  "it  was  such  a  little  text." 

"  It  was  prayer — about  prayer,"  stammered 
Jan." 

"  Ask  whatsoever "  prompted  his  mother, 

but  the  minister  intervened  with  unctuous  hand. 

"  My  dear,"  he  declaimed,  "  you  must  pardon 
me.  The  boy  has  nearly  attained  to  those  years 
of  discretion  which,  amongst  the  Chosen  People, 
were  considered  to  admit  of  initiation  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  Law,  yet  he  can  sit  under  the 
ministration  of  his  father  for  two  blessed  hours 
and  not  condescend  to  pick  up  a  single  crumb 
from  the  Table ! "  Then  he  turned  to  his  step- 
son. "Go  upstairs  to  your  bedroom,"  he  said. 
"  If  you  thus  despise  spiritual  food,  it  is  not  meet 
that  you  should  enjoy  carnal !  Go  upstairs  to 
your  room,  Jan,  and  copy  out  the  text  you 
have  forgotten,  or  rather  not  learned,  twenty 
times.  .  .  .  Matthew  twenty-one,  twenty-two  ! " 
he  called  after  the  small  retreating  figure. 

"  It  is  very  wrong  of  him,"  said  the  mother,  in 
answer  to  her  husband's  half-questioning,  half- 
reproachful  glance.  "  I  cannot  understand  why 
the  dear  child  shows  such  frequent  indifference 
to  religion.      I  sometimes  fear  it  is  my  fault, 


PRAYER  71 

Simon,  because,  you  see,  he  was  born  of  parents 
who  did  not  know  the  Lord." 

"He  certainly  had  not  the  inestimable  advant- 
age of  these  babes,"  assented  Simon.  "  His 
father  was  a  man  of  sin.  Ours  is  a  great  respon- 
sibility, Matilda ;  we  must  never  ignore  it — lest 
the  child  grow  up  like  his  father ! " 

Matilda  sighed,  a  very  mingled  sigh,  full  of 
sinful,  sweet  memories  and  present-day  solem- 
nities, a  sigh  of  contentment  withal. 

Meanwhile  the  boy,  settling  to  his  task,  gave 
a  similar  little  sob,  but  his  sounded  like  one  of 
relief.  He  seemed  glad  to  have  got  away  from 
the  noise  and  the  sunlight  downstairs.  The  bed- 
room was  comparatively  cool.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  felt  ill,  and  he  did  not  understand 
the  feeling. 

"Believing  ye  shall  receive,"  he  wrote,  his 
inked  fingers  clinging  tight  around  the  pen.  His 
head  drooped  down  low  upon  his  hand.  "  Ask 
whatsoever  ye  will " 

He  looked  up,  to  the  blue  sky  beyond  the 
window,  the  Northern  Summer  sky,  placid  and 
benign.  The  words  were  slowly  eating  them- 
selves into  his  heart.  The  morning's  thoughts 
in  chapel  came  back  to  him.  And  he  nodded 
to  high  heaven  with  full  understanding  of 
his  strength.  Then  again  he  dropped  his  face 
toward  the  paper.  "And  all  things  what- 
soever  "     It  seemed  to  him  as  if,  suddenly, 

he  held  Aladdin's  Lamp. 

His  castles  in  the  air  were    upset  by  the 


72  PRAYER 

entrance  of  his  stepfather.  Simon  Rotteval  took 
up  the  partially  filled  sheet  and  carefully  ex- 
amined it. 

"You  have  written  very  untidily,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  will  excuse  you  the  rest,  because  it  is  the 
Sabbath,  and,  besides,  we  must  soon  get  ready 
for  Sunday  school.     Say  your  text,  Jan." 

The  boy  said  it,  fluently  enough  this  time. 

"And  now,  Jan,  we  will  kneel  down  together, 
and,  using  this  great  privilege  accorded  us,  will 
pray  that  you  may  grow  up  a  God-fearing  man, 
not  an  unbeliever,  like  your  relations." 

In  a  flash  the  boy  felt  that  the  final  word, 
intentionally  vague,  was  aimed  straight  at  his 
dead  father. 

"  I  won't,"  he  said. 

The  minister  swelled  out  in  all  his  long 
rotundity,  egg-shaped. 

"  Child  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

Little  Jan  faced  him,  dizzy  and  determined. 

"  Kneel  down  here  ! "  cried  the  minister,  pro- 
jecting a  shiny  forefinger,  "  and  pray  at  once  to 
be  good." 

The  boy  did  not  stir. 

Simon  Rotteval  stood  waiting  for  a  long, 
solemn  moment :  then  he  proceeded  majestically 
toward  the  door  which  communicated  with  his 
own  chamber,  and  Jan's  heart  sank  into  his 
boots.  But  it  came  up  again  with  a  thump 
against  his  teeth  and  set  them  hard. 

The  minister  returned  with  a  well-known 
cane.     He  paused  by  the  door. 


PRAYER  73 

"In  consideration  of  its  being  the  Sabbath 
day  I  will  give  you  another  chance,"  he  said. 

But  Jan,  with  the  thought  of  his  dead  father 
coming  uppermost,  remained  silent,  so  he  was 
first  exhorted,  then  stripped  and  severely  beaten, 
to  the  glory  of  God. 

The  children  downstairs  listened  awestruck, 
looking  at  their  mother.  "  Jan  is  naughty,"  said 
the  mother.  She  felt  very  sad  about  her  little 
son. 

"  You  will  remain  here,"  cried  the  incensed 
pastor,  as  he  flung  the  boy  from  him,  "  until  you 
consent  to  ask  forgiveness  of  your  Creator !  You 
are  not  fit  to  partake  of  our  Sunday-school  devo- 
tions !  To  think  that  any  child  of  mine  should 
deliberately  refuse  to  pray!"  Then  he  hurried 
out  of  the  room,  as  if  not  trusting  himself  to 
remain,  and  locked  the  door  behind  him. 

The  boy  lay  for  a  long  time  as  he  had  fallen, 
shaken  by  sobs.  When  at  last  he  arose,  grown 
calmer,  there  was  that  look  on  his  face  of  set 
hatred  which  only  ill-treatment  can  call  up.  He 
went  to  the  window  and  stood  gazing  out.  The 
summer  afternoon  was  very  still. 

Suddenly  he  said  aloud  :  "If  I  ever  pray  again, 
it  will  be  that  papa  may  die ! "  And  presently  he 
added  :  "  I  swear  it." 

Then  again  he  was  silent,  thinking  long, 
thinking  what  it  would  mean  to  him,  to  his 
mother,  to  all  of  them,  this  deliverance  from  the 
torment  of  oppression,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  the 
free  return  to  grandpa,  the  uncles,  the  easy-going, 


74  PRAYER 

educated  Somers  family.  His  mother's  feelings, 
entirely  moulded  by  her  religious  sympathy  with 
her  husband,  he  could  not,  for  lack  of  such  sym- 
pathy, understand.  According  to  his  father's 
people  she  had  made  a  monstrous  mistake.  And 
he  loved  her  in  spite  of  it,  longing  for  her  release 
from  the  degradation  it  had  brought  upon  her. 

The  slow  hours  dragged  on,  as  he  stood  or 
lay,  thinking  in  a  circle  of  angry  triumphant 
thought.  Whether  he  stood  by  the  window  or 
hung  across  the  bed,  the  white  paper  on  the 
table  seemed  to  call  to  him.  "All  things  what- 
soever— all  things "    And  he  felt  that  he  held 

his  step-father's  life  in  the  hollow  of  his  little 
hand. 

His  head  rolled  on  the  pillow;  the  words 
went  whirling  round  and  round.  As  the  shadows 
began  to  lengthen,  the  dull  stabbing  and  swelling 
in  his  throat  which  had  troubled  him  all  day 
increased  rapidly  till  he  could  hardly  endure 
them.  He  sat  up  and  gasped ;  the  room  seemed 
to  heave  toward  him. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  his  mother 
came  in. 

"  Jan,  I  hope  you  are  no  longer  naughty,"  she 
said. 

He  did  not  answer,  as  much  because  of  the 
physical  effort  it  would  have  cost  him  as  for 
want  of  a  right  word  to  say. 

"You  grieve  your  papa  very  much,"  his 
mother  continued,  and  came  and  stood  by  the 
bed. 


PRAYER  75 

As  she  did  so,  he  turned  his  hot  face  toward 
her,  and  she  started.     "Are  you  ill?"  she  said. 

"I— I  don't  know,"  he  gasped,  and  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice  she  swayed  back. 

"  Does  your  throat  hurt  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Come  to  the  window.    Let  me  look  at  it !  " 

He  staggered  off  the  bed.  "  It— it  isn't  very 
sore,"  he  said. 

"Are  you  sore  anywhere  else?"  she  asked, 
laying  down,  with  trembling  hand,  the  spoon  she 
had  pressed  upon  his  tongue. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  she  crimsoned.  "I 
mean,  do  you  feel  pains  in  your  limbs?" 

"Yes,  in  my  legs,  mother.  I  did  all  the 
morning." 

"  Oh,  Jan,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  A  few 
hours  may  make  all  the  difference." 

"What  would  it  have  mattered?  I  should 
have  had  to  go  to  church  all  the  same."  He 
tumbled  back  to  his  bed. 

"Get  into  it  at  once,"  she  urged,  and  fled 
from  his  unconscious  reproach.  She  knew, 
without  the  hastily  summoned  doctor's  telling, 
that  the  child  had  caught  diphtheria. 

All  the  others  must  be  hurried  out  of  the 
house,  divided  among  willing  members  of  the 
little  congregation.  A  placard,  according  to 
the  foolish  law  of  the  country,  must  be  affixed  to 
the  front  door,  warning  all  men  not  to  enter, 
although  the  inmates  continued  at  liberty  to  go 
wherever  they  listed.     Ninety-nine  exasperating 


76  PRAYER 

medical  measures  had  to  be  taken  against  infec- 
tion, all  utterly  fallacious  because  of  the  imprac- 
ticability of  a  hundredth.  In  the  silence  and 
bustle  of  nursing,  the  constantly  renewed  re- 
quirements of  dangerous  illness,  the  mother  and 
the  stepfather  wore  themselves  out.  The  house 
was  hushed  around  the  struggle,  yet  alive  with 
the  terror  of  an  impending  catastrophe.  After  a 
day  or  two  an  operation  became  necessary.  The 
doctor  shook  his  head. 

When  he  came  back  in  the  evening  he  shook 
it  again.  He  was  with  the  parents  in  the  room 
adjoining  the  sick-room. 

"  If  the  boy  is  in  danger,  he  must  know  it," 
said  Rotteval.  The  mother  looked  across  at  the 
rugged  old  doctor,  all  her  agony  of  hope  in  her 
face. 

"Of  course  he  is  in  danger,"  replied  the 
doctor.  "If  you  tell  him,  you  will  probably  kill 
him  at  once." 

"  I  am  responsible,"  said  Simon,  "  for  my 
stepson's  soul." 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  And  for 
his  body,  I  presume,"  said  the  doctor,  walking  out. 

"  Don't,  Simon  !  "  said  the  wife  softly.  "  Let 
me."  They  were  both  pale  with  anxiety  and 
night-watching.     The  fat  man's  clothes  flapped 

about    him.      "The  child's  soul "  persisted 

Simon. 

"I  will  be  its  keeper.  Simon,  I  have  never 
wanted  my  own  way  :  I  have  let  you  act  for  the 
best  with  the  boy " 


PRAYER  77 

"  Do  not  reproach  me  with  that  now  ! "  cried 
the  stepfather.  "  If  you  had  desired  differ- 
ently  " 

"Did  not  I  say  it  was  for  the  best?  I  re- 
proach no  one,  not  even  myself.  We  have  done 
our  duty  by  the  child  according  to  our  lights. 
God  knows  the  rest.    Grant  me  now  this  one 

thing:  let  me "     Her  voice  faltered.     She 

faced  him.  "  Do  you  think  it  is  an  enviable  thing 
to  tell  a  child  he  is  going  to  die  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  it  is  not  as  bad  as  that ! " 
objected  Simon,  advancing  to  place  a  limp  hand 
upon  her  shoulder ;  but  she  shook  him  off  and 
burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"  It  will  be  to-morrow,"  she  sobbed. 

And,  indeed,  she  had  too  well  understood 
the  doctor's  reticence.  Through  the  night  she 
watched  the  unequal  battle;  in  the  early  grey 
morning  she  said  to  herself :  "  It  is  nearly  over." 

She  knelt  by  the  bedside.  Perfect  silence  lay 
all  about  her,  in  the  house,  and  around  it.  Her 
husband  was  asleep  in  the  adjoining  room.  Not 
a  leaf  stirred,  not  a  living  creature  outside.  Only 
the  short,  quick  gasps  of  the  boy  kept  on,  and 
on,  and  on,  stabbing  her  to  the  heart,  every  one. 
It  was  three  o'clock,  the  majestic  dawn  of  a 
cloudless  summer  day. 

"  Jan ! "  she  whispered,  close  to  the  dying 
child's  ear,  "you  are  very  ill,  dear.  You  must 
pray  to  God ;  you  must  pray." 

He  faintly  shook  his  head.  To  her  unspeak- 
able horror,  in  distinct  refusal,  he  shook  his 


78  PRAYER 

head.  It  was  to  her,  in  the  honesty  of  her  reli- 
gious fervour,  as  if  all  the  grief  and  anxiety  she 
had  undergone  were  as  nothing  compared  to 
this  moment  of  agony.  She  clasped  her  hands 
till  the  nails  entered  the  flesh  without  her 
observing  it.  Was  it  possible  that  the  misun- 
derstanding between  the  child  and  his  stepfather 
had  brought  her  boy's  heart  to  this  ? 

In  a  tumult  of  intercession  she  bent  over  him, 
regardless  of  the  danger,  and,  amid  the  cries  of 
her  soul  to  God — 

"Jan!"  she  said,  "Jan!  You  are  ill.  God 
only  knows  how  ill  you  are.  You  must  pray  to 
Him  !    You  must  pray  ! " 

The  boy  forced  himself  to  a  supreme  effort. 
" I  mayn't"  he  hissed. 

For  that  had  been,  throughout  all  the  fever 
and  the  torment,  amid  the  hideous  confusions  of 
his  fancy,  that  had  been  the  continuous  oppres- 
sion, worse  even  at  times  than  the  iron  tightening 
at  his  throat.  "  O  God,  I  mayn't.  You  know  I 
mayn't ! "  He  had  repeated  it  over  and  over 
again,  in  restless  tossings  and  whisperings, 
during  the  long  day,  the  longer  night.  He  was 
bound  by  his  childish  oath  to  pray  first  for  his 
stepfather's  death  before  he  could  put  up  any 
other  petition. 

"  Whatsoever  ye  shall  ask  !  "  It  seemed 
written  in  the  air  all  around  him  :  the  flowers  on 
the  wall-paper  wreathed  the  words  in  unending 
chains.  He  could  ask  his  life  of  God  ;  the  pain 
would  stop;  he  would  get  up  and  run   about 


PRAYER  79 

again.  But  his  mother  would  be  a  widow,  his 
little  stepbrothers  orphans. 

"O  God,  have  mercy  upon  me.  You  see  I 
mayn't.  I  can't,  God ;  You  know  I  mayn't.  Oh, 
help  me,  though  I  mayn't  pray.  My  throat 
hurts  so ! " 

Of  the  Deity  of  his  stepfather's  preaching  he 
understood  little,  yet  he  knew  Him  to  be  terrible, 
righteous,  an  avenger.  He  knew  every  word  of 
the  Bible  to  be  literally  true  :  it  must  be  accepted 
exactly  as  it  stood. 

"  I  mayn't,"  he  gasped,  turning  to  his  mother 
his  desperate,  appealing  eyes. 

She  lost  all  control  of  herself,  sinking  down 
by  the  bed.  "  You  may  ! "  she  shrieked.  "  You 
may  !  You  may  !  It's  a  lie  of  the  devil's.  O 
God,  pity  him !  Pity  me !  Tell  him  it's  a  lie  ! 
Have  mercy  on  him.     Help  him  to  pray  !  " 

But  he  knew  that  she  couldn't  understand. 
He  was  unable  to  explain  to  her.  He  could  only 
lie  gasping  away  his  life. 

"  Oh,  pray  to  Him  ! "  she  sobbed,  "  pray  ! 
pray  !  Shake  your  head,  dear,  to  show  you 
understand ! " 

He  lay  staring  at  her,  not  moving,  anxious  to 
spare  her  the  pain  of  a  refusal,  pretending  not 
to  hear. 

Then,  suddenly,  there  came  to  him  a  great 
understanding  that  he  was  doing  right,  and  that 
God,  far  beyond  all  men,  knows  right  from 
wrong.  God,  as  he  had  once  cried  out,  in  the 
clumsy    muddle    of    the    religious    contortions 


80  PRAYER 

around  him,  was  a  gentleman,  and  he  met  Him, 
in  his  death-agony,  as  a  gentleman  should. 

"  I  have  done  right,"  he  said,  deep  down  in 
his  young  soul.  "  Have  mercy  on  me,  God  ! " — 
and  in  the  swift  calm  of  that  overspreading 
consciousness  he  died. 

Simon  Rotteval,  stealing  in  many  minutes 
later,  found  the  mother,  lost  in  prayer,  by  the 
bed. 

"You  must  not  pray  for  him  any  longer  now," 
he  said ;  "  that  would  be  wrong."     * 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  at  her 
husband. 

"  I  know,"  she  answered ;  "  I  am  praying  for 
myself.    And  for  you." 

"  You  consider  me  to  blame  ?  " 

"  No,  Simon ;  of  course  our  religion  is  right. 
But  I  can  only  say,  God,  have  mercy  !  God, 
have  mercy ! " 

"The  Lord  knoweth  His  own,"  said  Simon 
Rotteval. 


THE   LIBRARY 

IT  was  the  young  Countess  who  started  the 
village  library — that  village  library.  She 
had  been  staying,  with  her  mother,  at  the  great 
English  philanthropist's  great  place  in  Scotland, 
and  that  gentleman's — I  beg  his  pardon,  that 
nobleman's — daughters  had  shown  her  their 
library,  and  all  the  Jocks  and  Jeans,  in  a  motley 
medley,  on  a  Thursday  evening,  by  the  electric 
light  (from  the  castle)  in  the  village  "tea"  room, 
having  out  Scott  and  the  Schonberg-Cotta  family, 
and  the  whole  of  the  "  Pansy  "  series  from  the 
hands  of  the  Lady  Grizel  and  the  Lady  Meg.  It 
had  been  quite  an  effective  scene,  and  it  had 
impressed  itself  deeply  on  the  young  Countess's 
well-intentioned  mind.  The  bonnie  braw  faces 
(I  am  not  sure  that  "  braw  "  is  right,  but  I  believe 
so),  the  soft,  sweet-smelling  summer  evening 
outside,  the  heat  and  blaze  indoors,  and  the 
eager  hands  outstretched,  as  their  turn  came, 
for  instruction,  and  the  young  ladies  in  their 
white  frocks  and  jewels,  helpful,  interested, 
giving  advice.  And  a  great,  big  lubber  of  a 
farm-hand,  who  had  said,  in  his  clownish  manner 
(so  "  taking "),  when  they  offered  him  u  Waver- 
ley  " :  "  Na,  nae  "  (or  is  it  "nae,  na  ?  "),  that  Scott— 

G 


82  THE  LIBRARY 

it  was  the  "ither  "  one  he  had  meant,  the  brown 
volume  "yon,"  the  "  History  of  the  Westminster 
Conference  " ;  he  had  heard  there  was  a  powerful 
lot  of  instruction  in  that.  His  auld  grandmither, 
he  said,  had  told  him  Walter  Scott  was  "warldly "  : 
there  was  a  micht  of  love-making  and  profane 
swearing  in  Sir  Walter.  The  Lady  Grizel  said 
that  was  true,  up  to  a  point.  She  offered  him 
the  second  volume  of  the  Schonberg-Cotta 
family,  the  first  happening  to  be  out  at  the  time. 

The  young  Countess  came  home  to  Holland, 
thoughtful  and  rather  happy.  She  was  so  tired 
of  her  one  act  of  kindness  to  others,  which  was 
scratching  her  parrot's  head.  Once  upon  a  time 
she  had  undertaken — at  the  great  philanthropist's 
instigation — helping  "  Silly,"  the  idiot  boy,  to 
live  his  life.  But  he  had  left  off  living  it 
altogether,  just  as  she  was  beginning  to  make 
headway.     She  had  spoken  of  it,  sadly,  with  the 

good   English  earl  (Lord   D ),   and  he  had 

agreed  with  her  that  such  dispensations — the 
having  to  dispense  with  " Silly" — were  very 
painful.  Lady  Meg  had  given  her  some  charm- 
ing ideas  for  muslin  morning  gowns,  and  the 
address  of  the  best  manicure  woman  in  London : 
she  went  back  rather  happy  and  very  thoughtful. 
She  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  her  stay. 

Her  own  home  doesn't  stand  among  hills  and 
heather ;  its  surroundings  are  stunted  pines 
and  great  wastes  of  dune-land,  away  towards 
the  sand-girt  sea.  It  is  rather  a  desolate  region. 
There   are   not    muslin    frocks    enough   in   the 


THE   LIBRARY  83 

neighbourhood.  But  you  can  be  very  useful. 
And  in  the  winter  you  get  away  to  the  Hague. 

You  can  be  very  useful.  That  was  her 
haunting  sorrow,  and  had  been  for  years— she 
was  now  twenty-seven — the  feeling  that  you 
ought  to  be,  and  could  be.  She  came  back 
home,  from  all  that  usefulness  and  splendour  in 
Inverness-shire,  thinking  it  out  gently  to  herself 
in  the  train :  the  latest  novel  they  had  given  her 
to  read  on  the  journey — one  of  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward's — slipped  from  her  pensive  fingers  to  the 
floor.  The  bump  woke  her  mother,  much  tried 
by  the  emotional  night-crossing  and  clumsily 
dozing. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  cried  the  old  Countess.  "  My 
dear,  how  you  startled  me ! "  The  Countess 
Hilda  realised  that  her  usefulness  was  again  not 
all  that  it  might  have  been. 

She  found  her  father,  as  usual,  full  of  com- 
plaints about  the  poor  people.  He  said  they 
were  so  shockingly  ignorant.  But  he  had  always 
said  that.  Except  when  he  said  they  knew  too 
much. 

"  But  how  can  they  be  ignorant  and  know  too 
much?"  Hilda  had  once  timidly  questioned,  many 
years  ago. 

He  stared  at  her,  with  his  fine,  hard,  old 
countenance,  the  bent  nose,  the  parchment 
cheeks,  the  grey  frill. 

u  My  dear,"  he  said,  u  if  you  were  not  abso- 
lutely unacquainted  with  everything  concerning 
the  peasantry,  you  could  not  possibly  inquire." 


84  THE  LIBRARY 

That  was  all  the  reply  she  got.  One  must 
admit  that  it  was  damping. 

"They  don't  know  the  right  things,"  her 
British  friend  had  explained  to  her.  "You  are 
ruined  in  your  country  by  Board  schools,  secular 
education,  absurd  development  of  what  nobody 
needs— in  one  word,  the  Tyranny  of  the  Teacher. 
You  are  fifty  years  ahead  of  us  in  this  craze,  and 
you  are  suffering  from  all  the  mental  diseases 
that  we  shall  get  to  in  time,  if  we  don't  look  out. 
You  follow  me  ?  " 

"I  wish  I  could,"  replied  Hilda,  who  mis- 
understood this  English  phrase. 

He  was  very  patient,  and  wise  and  good— he 
did  well,  and  meant  even  better — he  told  her  all 
about  it  over  again. 

"  But  most  of  my  father's  labourers  can't  even 
write,"  she  said. 

"  They  can  read,  however." 

"Oh,  yes;  they  can  all  read." 

"  That's  bad  enough.  I  mean  to  say  :  what  an 
opportunity  for  evil!  Have  you  any  idea,  my 
dear  young  lady,  what  they  read  ?  " 

"No.  I  don't  think  they  read  anything.  The 
local  paper,  perhaps.  But  only  the  children  that 
fall  into  boiling  water." 

"The  children  — that  — I  don't  think  I 
quite " 

"The  local  accidents-column.  What  we  call 
the  !  Sundries.'  Even  my  maid,  who  is  of  course 
quite  of  the  highest  class,  always  tells  me  of 
the  babies  that  have  fallen  into  boiling  water. 


THE   LIBRARY  85 

Nothing  else  seems  really  to  interest  her.     And 
so  many  fall." 

"Immediate  measures  should  be  taken  to 
stop  it,"  said  the  philanthropist,  energetically. 
"  A  village  creche " 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda  sadly,  "my  mother  arranged 
with  an  old  woman  once  to  take  the  smallest 
infants.  But,  when  everything  was  ready,  all 
the  little  cots  and — and  other  household  utensils, 
the  mothers  refused  to  send  their  children.  It 
appears  they  didn't  trust  the  old  woman.  They 
had  an  idea  she  might  get  the  children  mixed." 

"They  need  a  great  deal  of  patience,"  said  the 
philanthropist,  with  a  sigh. 

"It  is  true  she  was  very  blind,"  admitted 
Hilda,  in  a  small  voice. 

"The  difficulty  might  easily  have  been  obvi- 
ated," he  pleaded,  "by  a  simple  device.  In  our 
great  cities,  where  the  danger  is  much  more 
real,  the  thousands  of  infants  in  every  crtche, 
have  a  number  stamped  on  their  cot,  on  their 
mother " 

Hilda  cried  out. 

"Given  to  their  mother,  of  course  I  mean," 
he  said,  with  just  a  tinge  of  impatience  on  his 
angelic  countenance ;  "  on  their  night-gowns,  their 
bibs  and  their  bottles."  He  stopped  to  draw 
breath.  "  On  every  article  they  use,  I  believe," 
he  added.  "  But  the  babies  would  probably  not 
interest  you.  My  unmarried  daughters  object 
to  babies.  They  are  all  the  better  with  the 
boys." 


86  THE   LIBRARY 

Hilda  thought  of  "  Silly,"  and  a  tear  gathered 
in  her  eye. 

"  I'm  afraid  of  boys ;  they're  so  rough,"  she 
pleaded. 

"You  did  very  well  with  that  poor  idiot  the 
one  time  you  spoke  to  him ." 

"  It  was  only  once,  and  he  was  an  idiot,"  said 
Hilda. 

"  Well,  my  girls  told  me  you  were  so  much 
interested  in  their  library.  I  feel  sure  Meg 
would  be  delighted  to  help  you  in  any  way  she 
could." 

"  But  they  don't  want  to  read,  with  us,"  she 
repeated  piteously. 

"They  must  be  made  to  want,  then,"  he 
answered  sternly.  "Your  country  people  are 
evidently  a  very  different  sort  from  our  Scottish 
peasantry,  who  all  read  Shakespeare,  Carlyle, 
Emerson  and  Burns." 

"Oh,  indeed,  indeed,  they  must  be  very 
different ! "  she  said  earnestly.  "  Now,  my  maid, 
when  we  were  on  the  Riviera,  she  never  could 
go  to  church,  you  know,  and  we  felt  she  must 
have  some  religious  instruction,  and  I  took  to 
reading  her  Mr.  Spurgeon's  sermons  on  Sundays. 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Spurgeon's  sermons?" 

He  smiled.  "  Yes.  They  are  very  beautiful : 
don't  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  think  they  are  very  beautiful,"  she 
answered  shyly,  "  and  also  a  little  long.  Elizabeth 
found  them  very  long.  Although  I  skipped. 
Do  you  think  it  was  wicked  to  skip?" 


THE  LIBRARY  87 

"  Not  if  you  did  it  for  her  sake.  It  would 
have  been,  had  you  done  it  for  your  own." 

"  Oh ! "  she  said  gratefully,  and  hesitatingly, 
"but  Elizabeth  used  to  yawn  dreadfully,  and 
once  she  fell  fast  asleep,  so  I  fear  I  didn't  skip 
enough.  Then  I  thought  it  would  be  better  to 
read  her  the  Bible  only.  I  couldn't  be  wrong 
about  that,  and,  if  she  fell  asleep,  it  must  be  her 
fault :  don't  you  think  that  was  right  ?  " 

"  Very  right,"  he  answered. 

"  So  I  read  her  the  story  of  Esther — in  parts. 
That  always  seems  to  me  such  a  beautiful  story, 
and  Elizabeth  listened  with  great  interest ;  she 
really  did." 

"  Aha ! " 

"  Yes,  but,  some  days  afterwards,  I  asked  her 
whether  she  didn't  think  Mordecai  was  a  splendid 
character,  and  she  said :  Yes  he  was ;  but  the 
character  she  liked  best  was  the  nice  young  clerk 
from  the  shop." 

The  noble  earl  waited,  sympathetically. 

"I  found  she  had  hopelessly  mixed  up  the 
Bible  narrative  with  some  goody-goody  modern 
story  she  was  reading  at  the  time." 

"You  should  not  say  goody-goody  stories, 
my  dear.  They  are  the  foundation  of  our  library, 
as  they  will  be  of  yours." 

So,  in  her  odd  mixture  of  satiric  aspiration, 
the  young  Countess  returned,  resolved  to  work 
the  library.  She  told  her  old-fashioned  parent 
a  great  deal  about  Clochtghlorchler,  and  he  said 
he  was  heartily  glad  he  hadn't  been  there.     But 


88  THE  LIBRARY 

he  was  a  curmudgeon,  and,  like  so  many  fathers, 
he  might  have  made  her  life  ten  times  pleasanter 
without  any  discomfort  to  himself. 

"  Pshaw ! "  he  said.  "  The  less  they  read,  the 
better  for  them!" 

"  But  that  is  because  they  don't  read  the  right 
kind  of  things,"  replied  Hilda. 

He  stared  at  her.  And  then  he  made  a  sound 
as  if  he  were  gargling.  That  was  his  way  of 
saying  Clochtghlorchler.  You  can't  do  it  different, 
unless  to  the  manner  born.  Then  you  say : 
Clooter. 

She  would  have  despaired  of  beginning  her 
library  at  all,  but  a  week  or  two  after  her  return 
there  arrived  a  big  parcel,  addressed  to  her  from 
Scotland.     She  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  the  tartan  they  promised  me  !  "  she  cried. 
"  How  delightful ! " 

But  it  was  not  the  tartan  this  time :  a  pile  of 
books  rolled  on  to  the  carpet — publications  they 
proved  of  the  London  "  Society  for  the  Rational 
Development  of  a  Refined  Imagination  among 
the  Respectable  Poor."  The  Society's  stamp 
was  upon  every  copy,  so  that  there  might  be  no 
mistake  about  whom  they  were  intended  for. 

"  Father  forgot  to  ask  you,"  wrote  Lady  Meg 
(this  rather  peculiar  appellation,  by-the-by,  was 
a  "link  with  our  humble  kinswomen  of  the  same 
clan  "),  u  but  he  is  sending  these  books,  because 
he  feels  sure  they  will  come  in  useful.  You 
Dutch  people  are  such  wonderful  linguists  that, 


THE   LIBRARY  89 

no  doubt,  many  of  the  better  class  villagers  have 
a  smattering  of  English.  Father  says  he  was 
surprised  at  the  way  all  the  tram-conductors 
spoke  our  language  at  Amsterdam.  I  suppose 
your  people  are  bilateral  like  our  own  High- 
landers, and  of  course,  with  our  great  empire, 
English  does  tend  to  become  the  universal 
language,  doesn't  it  ?    What  a  responsibility ! 

"  Your  affectionate 

"  Meg 

"  I'm  afraid  the  tartan  won't  be  ready  for 
another  three  weeks.  Do  write  and  tell  me 
all  about  your  library.  We  are  so  immensely 
interested.  When  are  you  coming  to  Scotland 
again  ?  " 

So  the  library  was  started.  It  had  a  nucleus. 
When  the  old  Count  saw  the  nucleus  in  a  little 
pile  on  the  drawing-room  floor,  he  said  "  Pshaw ! " 
And  he  went  off  to  his  room  without  another 
word  than  that  aggravating  one,  and  returned 
presently  holding  a  big  volume  under  his  arm. 
This  he  solemnly  deposited  on  top  of  the  nucleus. 
It  turned  out  to  be  a  book  of  Japanese  poetry 
that  somebody  had  forgotten  in  the  library, 
somehow,  many  years  ago. 

"This  is  my  contribution,"  said  the  old  Count 
gravely. 

Hilda  laughed,  then  her  face  grew  very 
solemn. 

"Never  mind,"  advised  the  comfortable 
Countess. 


90  THE  LIBRARY 

But  the  old  lady  did  a  little  more  than  that. 
She  answered  an  advertisement  in  the  news- 
papers, and  bought  up  a  cheap  remnant  of 
standard  authors — six  dozen  odd  volumes,  many 
appropriate — and  she  placed  these  in  a  splendid 
row  before  Hilda,  when  the  girl  came  down  to 
breakfast  on  the  day  after  they  had  arrived. 

"So  the  library  is  started,  willy-nilly,"  said 
Hilda,  kissing  her  mother. 

"Your  responsibility  altogether,  my  dear," 
growled  the  Count. 

"  It  will  do  Hilda  a  lot  of  good,"  said  Hilda's 
mother.  The  Countess  was  the  image  of  placid 
contentment.  She  enjoyed  unbroken  health,  her 
position,  and  a  good  dinner.  She  thought  you 
should  be  very  kind  to  the  poor. 

The  good  work  now  being  fairly  under  way, 
Hilda,  with  much  nervousness  and  misgiving, 
asked  for  books,  hunted  up  books,  spent  her 
limited  pocket-money  on  books.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  originally  the  rich  member  of  the 
family,  an  old  aunt  having  left  her  a  large  sum, 
but  this  legacy  had  early  become  her  misfortune, 
for  her  father,  to  secure  the  reversion  to  his  son, 
had  practically  condemned  her  to  a  life  of  single 
blessedness.  Meanwhile  he  allowed  her  a  pittance 
out  of  the  revenues.  The  scandalous  law  of  the 
country  which  designedly  destroys  all  hereditary 
possessions  must  be  adduced  to  condone  the  old 
Count's  action,  though  it  cannot  altogether  excuse 
it.  It  had  caused  Hilda  to  reflect  frequently,  when 
out  of  spirits,  that  everybody  would  be  the  better 


THE   LIBRARY  91 

for  her  death.  At  present  she  worked  hard  writing 
out  numbers  and  sticking  them  inside  the  books 
and  on  the  backs.  It  was  decided  that  the  library 
should  be  installed  on  shelves  in  a  corner  of  the 
"  Church-room,"  the  House  being  more  than  a 
mile  distant  from  the  biggest  and  most  central  of 
the  many  scattered  heaps  of  fishing-huts.  But 
there  was  a  great  to-do  before  we  got  so  far. 
Innovations  usually  go  awry  in  Dutch  villages, 
where  everything  proposed  by  the  gentry  is 
always  systematically  negatived  on  that  account. 
The  Lord  of  the  Manor  had  no  power  over  the 
"  Church-room,"  though  he  —  i.e.  Hilda  —  had 
largely  paid  to  build  it.  The  churchwardens 
were  all  conservative  to  the  core,  as  far  as  their 
own  rights  and  wrong-doings  were  concerned, 
and  radical  to  a  man  in  their  attitude  towards 
the  Count.  Their  leader,  Churchwarden  Spottle, 
convened  a  meeting.  It  was  decided  that  the 
use  of  the  room  should  be  accorded  the  young 
Countess,  on  condition  that  no  books  should  be 
introduced  into  the  library  which  were  "  immoral, 
improper,  indecent,  or  unorthodox." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  half-dozen  black-coated 
idiots,  with  their  long  pipes,  round  the  deal  table. 

"  We  must  now  decide  who  is  to  decide," 
began  Churchwarden  Klotz,  "  which  books  are 
im "  and  he  said  it  all  again. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  others.  It  was  agreed  that 
the  worthy  president  should  examine  the  cata- 
logue. He  gravely  consented  to  do  this.  A  little 
difficulty  presented  itself  later  on,  when  it  was 


92  THE  LIBRARY 

discovered  that  he  could  barely  spell.  Church- 
warden Klotz,  Spottle's  life-long  parochial  rival, 
laughed  aloud  at  this.    "  Ho !  ho !  " 

"What  are  you  shouting  at?"  demanded 
Spottle,  his  lean  jaws  gone  grey. 

"Nothing.  Oh,  nothing.  Only  what  was 
that  you  read  out  just  now  from  the  Countess's 
draft  of  Rules  ?  " 

"The  Prescription,  on  pain " 

"Ha!  ha!  It  isn't  'prescription.'  It's  ! sub- 
scription,' man!  The  subscription,  on  pain 
of " 

Churchwarden  Spottle  snatched  the  paper 
back. 

"  Let  me  alone,  Klotz,"  he  said.  "  I'm  Presi- 
dent I  She  doesn't  write  :  she  just  scratches  like 
a  hen  on  a  muck-heap.     Exposure " 

"Expulsion!"  cried  the  exultant  Klotz. 
"Brethren,  I  fear  that  our  worthy  Brother 
Spottle  will  hardly  be  able  to  form  an  accurate 
estimate " 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  do  it  ?  "  interrupted 
the  infuriated  Spottle. 

Little,  meagre  Brother  Klotz  dropped  his 
eyelids. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  say,"  he  murmured.  "  If 
the  brethren  consider  me  worthy,  I  shall  certainly 
spare  no  pains." 

After  a  long  tussle  his  party  carried  the 
day.  An  elaborate  epistle,  full  of  mistakes,  was 
despatched  to  the  Lord  of  the  Manor.  The 
Brethren  would  be  delighted  to  accede  to  his 


THE  LIBRARY  93 

Nobleness's  request,  but  their  grave  Responsi- 
bility, etc.,  the  Souls  of  the  community,  etc. — a 
few  words  more  reverend  still  and  "immoral, 
im etc.,  etc." 

"  Thunder  and  lightning ! "  cried  the  purple 
old  Count.  "  Do  the  outrageous  fools  think  that 
my  daughter " 

The  mild,  much  harassed  Minister  offered  to 
mediate.  He  was  quite  sure  he  would  be  able 
to  explain " 

"  Explanation  be — blessed ! "  said  the  Count. 
Without  consulting  Hilda,  who  happened  to  be 
away  for  a  day  or  two,  he  packed  up  all  the 
books  of  the  London  Society  for  the  R.D.R.I.R.P. 
in  the  case  which  had  brought  them,  and  sent 
them  off  to  Churchwarden  Klotz.  He  told  Hilda 
nothing  on  her  return,  but  quietly  awaited  further 
developments.  After  a  week  the  books  came 
back,  with  a  missive  to  say  that  Brother  Klotz 
had  advised  the  other  Brethren  that  the  books 
intended  for  the  library  did  not  contain  anything 

which  could  be  considered  im ,  etc.     Klotz, 

resolved  that  the  library  should  succeed,  now 
Spottle  had  taken  a  dislike  to  it,  had  kept  his 
conscience  immaculate  by  not  opening  the  case 
at  all.  Hilda  had  not  missed  the  English  books; 
which  she  had  of  course  at  once  consigned  to  a 
garret :  her  father  did  not  tell  her  of  the  incident, 
and  pocketed,  with  a  little  more  bad  language,  the 
intentional  affront,  for  he  had  suddenly  made  up 
his  mind  to  encourage  the  library.  His  wife  had 
convinced  him,   as  usual.    Anything  to  render 


94  THE  LIBRARY 

Hilda  happy  at  home,  to  keep  her  from  adventur- 
ing marriage,  in  spite  of  his  restrictions  and  her 
twenty-seven  years. 

11 1  think  everything  is  ready  now,"  said  Hilda. 
"The  annual  subscription  is  twopence.  I  can 
open  next  Thursday." 

11  Why  Thursday  ?  "  asked  the  Count. 

"  It  was  Thursday,"  replied  Hilda,  "  at " 

and  she  gargled. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  have  some  of  'em  come," 
said  her  father.     Hilda  looked  much  alarmed. 

"  Oh,  some  of  them  are  bound  to  come,"  her 
mother  reassured  her.  "  Those  that  live  round 
the  Church." 

"I  hope  some  more  will,  mother.  There 
were  lots  of  them  came  to  Lady  Meg." 

"Let  us  be  hopeful,"  replied  the  Countess. 
"After  all,  why  shouldn't  they  come?  You've 
got  books  in  that  library  I  shouldn't  mind  read- 
ing myself." 

This  really  sounded  hopeful,  for  the  Countess 
rarely  read  anything.  She  was  one  of  those 
people  who,  doing  little,  always  pathetically 
complain  that  they  yearn  to  have  more  time  for 
books. 

Had  Hilda  known,  she  could  have  been  at 
rest.  Churchwarden  Klotz — he  cannot  be  called 
"  Elder,"  for  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
spiritual  needs  of  the  congregation  :  he  belonged 
to  the  board  which  looks  after  the  church 
property — Churchwarden  Klotz  was  zealously 
working  on  her  behalf.     He  had  stirred  up  his 


THE   LIBRARY  95 

various  connections  to  depute  their  young  people 
and  their  apprentices :  they  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  go  themselves.  And  the  Count — 
seized  at  the  last  moment  by  a  dread  of  failure — 
sent  his  bailiff  round  to  some  of  the  villagers 
who,  according  to  the  pleasant  peasant  expres- 
sion, were  "  utterly  under  him,"  requesting  their 
presence  at  the  opening,  whatever  they  might  do 
after  that. 

Spottle,  of  course,  said  the  library  was  the 
Abomination  of  Wickedness.  He  could  do  so, 
having  voted  against  his  rival's  report.  But  he 
had  said  so  many  things  were  that  (the  A.  of  W.) 
— peep-shows,  and  motor-cars,  and  the  present 
minister  and  the  preceding  one — you  really 
couldn't  attach  the  same  significance  to  his 
utterance  as  when  he  had  first  made  it  regard- 
ing the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  After  all, 
Spottle  was  not  as  omniscient  as  he  thought 
himself.  He  was  the  only  person,  for  instance, 
in  the  whole  neighbourhood  unaware  that  his 
son  was  sweet — unfathomably  sweet — on  Rina 
Klotz. 

Churchwarden  Klotz  closed  both  eyes.  And 
also,  occasionally,  alone  with  his  meditations,  he 
closed  one.  For  it  was  delightful  to  realise  you 
were  fooling  old  Spottle,  and  Spottle  was  a  much 
richer  man  than  Klotz.  But,  eyes  closed  or  not, 
he  kept  a  tight  hand  upon  his  daughter.  "  Where 
are  you  slinking  to  ?  "  he  would  call  after  her. 
"  I  don't  believe  you  know.     Sit  down ! " 

The  eventful  day — or,   rather,   the    eventful 


96  THE  LIBRARY 

night — arrived.  "  You  see,  most  of  our  people 
work  during  the  daytime,"  Lady  Meg  had  ex- 
plained. The  Countess  Hilda  admitted  that, 
except  for  fisher-folk  and  bakers,  the  same  rule 
held  true  in  Holland.  After  nightfall,  then,  was 
the  best  time  to  get  the  people  together.  The 
long  winter  evenings  were  approaching,  when 
even  the  most  indifferent  might  find  occasion  to 
read. 

When  the  young  Countess  drove  down  from 
the  House,  she  saw  from  afar  off,  in  the  dusk,  a 
little  crowd  about  the  "  Church-room  "  door.  Her 
parents  had  been  called  away,  rather  unex- 
pectedly, by  a  semi-official  invitation.  She  felt 
painfully  nervous  :  to  keep  her  in  countenance, 
she  brought  along  a  schoolboy  cousin,  who 
happened  to  be  staying  in  the  house,  a  young 
Hopeful  who  could  probably  not  be  equalled  for 
love  of  mischief  by  the  whole  of  Lady  Grizel's 
Band  of  Hope. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  in,  good  people  ?  " 

"  Full  inside,"  said  a  surly  voice.  These 
villagers,  from  an  innate  humility,  or  self-know- 
ledge, dislike  being  called  "  good." 

Hilda's  heart  leaped,  and  sank.  Indeed,  the 
whole  place — not  a  very  large  one — was  crowded 
with  curious  faces,  mostly  beardless.  She  had 
prepared  a  little  speech,  about  the  pleasures  of 
getting  away  from  one's  monotone  existence  and 
the  advantages  of  contact  with  good  and  great 
minds.  After  the  first  flutter  she  rose  to  the 
occasion  and  spoke  her  few  sentences  admirably, 


THE   LIBRARY  97 

with  a  simple,  shy  appeal  to  them  that  conquered 
the  whole  lot— kindly  enough  and  far  from 
unintelligent  in  their  awkward  peasant  way. 
They  were  not  moved  to  enthusiasm,  for  nothing 
could  have  done  that — not  the  last  trump,  and 
themselves  booked  for  heaven ! — they  had  never 
applauded  in  their  lives,  but  they  grunted,  and 
some  of  the  women  nodded  to  each  other,  and 
Ludovic — the  imp  schoolboy— said :  "  Hear, 
hear!" 

Then  the  books  were  exposed  on  their  shelves, 
and  the  front  rows  of  possible  "  Subscribers " 
stood  staring  stolidly  at  them.  The  room  was 
very  close :  no  electric  light  here,  but  a  kerosene 
lamp  which  had  been  kept  low  till  it  smelt 
horribly,  and  had  then  been  turned  up  and  left 
smoking.  The  Freule  Hilda  got  the  lamp  right. 
The  stolid  front  rows  stared.  There  was  a  little 
visible  annoyance  about  the  annual  subscription 
of  twopence,  though  carefully  explained.  Every- 
body suddenly  felt  that  he  was  paying  for  his 
education,  paying  a  high  price  too.  And  if  you 
Pav>  y°u  are  master  of  the  situation.  The  Freule 
turned  into  a  purveyor,  like  the  tape-and-buttons 
man.  A  good  many  of  the  front  row  slunk  back, 
indignant.  Twopence,  indeed !  Because  she 
wanted  to  lend  you  books.  Think  what  you  can 
buy  for  twopence !  Ten  cigars.  Or  a  power  of 
baccy. 

But,  at  this  stage,  Klotz  came  definitely  to 
the  Freule's  help  and  saved  the  whole  situation. 
He  stepped  forward,  little  but  inflated. 


98  THE   LIBRARY 

"  You  may  put  me  down  for  a  full  subscrip- 
tion," he  said,  in  a  carrying  voice,  "  and  my  wife 
for  ano " 

"  I  haven't  no  time  to  read,"  from  the  wife  in 
a  shrill  falsetto — "  what  with  the  washing " 

"And  my  wife"  (much  louder)  "for  another, 
and  my  daughter  Rina,  that's  qualifying  for  a 
schoolmistress,  for  a  third  !  " 

He  stepped  back  and  eyed  everybody,  includ- 
ing the  young  Countess,  triumphantly.  It  had 
involved  reckless  expenditure,  but  he  had  beaten 
Spottle.  After  this,  the  village  tradespeople,  or 
tenants  who  were  "utterly  under,"  could  not 
hold  back.  The  young  Countess  put  down 
names  and  addresses,  and  mixed  up  people  she 
ought  to  have  known  by  sight,  hot,  blushing  and 
happy. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  smiling  on  the  stiffening 
subscribers,  "what  book  would  you  all  like  to 
have  ?  You  see,  you  can  each  have  a  book,  but 
of  course  you  can't  all  have  the  same." 

This  was  a  little  pleasantry :  not  a  feature 
relaxed.  Young  Ludovic  stood  by  the  shelves,  a 
table,  covered  with  a  long  green  cloth,  beside 
him.  All  the  volumes  had  been  covered  in  nice 
thick  brown  paper,  to  keep  them  clean :  excepting 
in  size  they  looked  exactly  alike.  Young  Ludovic 
had  been  very  busy  with  them,  sorting  and  re- 
arranging and  putting  them  down,  under  the 
green  table,  and  lifting  them  up  again,  while  his 
cousin  was  delivering  her  little  address.  He  had 
got  them  all  right  now.     He  suggested  that  he 


THE  LIBRARY  99 

should  read  out  names,  and  the  one  who  wanted 
the  particular  book  should  call  out  M  Me  !  "  This 
was  approved  of.  The  young  Countess,  at  her 
farther  end  of  the  table,  to  write  down  the 
names  of  the  recipient  and  his  book. 

"  Dickens.  Dahvid  Koperfielt ! "  called  Ludo- 
vic — the  translation,  of  course. 

Nobody  said  "Me! "  so  he  dumped  the  book 
down  in  the  hands  of  the  nearest  subscriber— 
an  abnormally  fat  old  farm-wife. 

Hilda  had  had  some  doubts  about  "  David 
Copperfield,"  but  Lady  Meg  had  him,  and  "  Oliver 
Twist,"  and  even  "Nickleby;"  still,  she  was  rather 
glad  that  he  hadn't  fallen  to  Klotz. 
"  <  The  Needs  of  my  Baby  ! '  " 
Dead  silence.  Dump,  to  a  yellow  and  red 
plough-boy.     A  faint  "  Ludovic  ! "  from  Hilda. 

11  All  right !  Go  ahead !  '  Commentary  of  the 
Colossians'  ?" 

No  response.  Dump,  to  a  fisher-lad  of  twelve. 
Then  Hilda  intervened. 

"  Oh,  get  away !  Get  away  ! "  he  cried  ex- 
citedly. "  Stick  to  your  writing !  I'll  select  'em 
better !    All  right ! " 

The  remaining  books  were  more  reasonably 
apportioned,  and  the  meeting  broke  up.  Hilda, 
delighted  with  her  success,  gave  a  full  description 
of  the  proceedings  to  her  parents.  Ludovic 
helped  in  the  description.  He  laughed  a  great 
deal.  Next  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  he  left  for 
his  own  home. 

A  few  hours  after  his  departure  the  news, 


100  THE  LIBRARY 

which  had  already  spread  all  over  the  neighbour- 
hood, reached  the  Manor  House.  The  young 
gentleman,  whilst  reading  out  Dutch  titles,  had 

promiscuously  distributed  Lord  D 's  English 

present,  having  assiduously  dragged  it  down 
from  the  garret,  done  it  up  in  brown  paper,  and 
secreted  it  under  the  green  tablecloth. 

Every  tuppenny  subscriber  sat  in  his  farm- 
house or  fishing-hut  with  an  English  book — and 
many  of  them  were  a  couple  of  miles  away. 

In  the  afternoon  Churchwarden  Klotz  and 
Mrs.  Klotz  called  to  see  the  Count.  It  was 
the  Count  they  wished  to  see— please.  The 
Count. 

"Yes,  yes  :  I  know,"  cried  the  Count,  entering 
the  room,  rather  flurried.  "  An  unfortunate  mis- 
take, Klotz.  We'll  put  it  right  next  Thursday. 
Give  everybody  two  books." 

"It's  not  that!"  replied  Klotz,  with  much 
scorn,  whilst  his  wife  stood  beside  him  and 
snorted. 

"Then  what  the  devil " 

"  We've  come  to  ask  what  this  means ! "  burst 
out  Klotz,  and  he  held  a  book,  open  at  the  title- 
page,  under  the  venerable  nose  of  the  Count. 

That  gentleman  fumbled  hastily  for  his  glasses. 
"'John  Halifax,  Gentleman!'  I  tell  you,  next 
Thursday  you  can  have " 

"My  daughter  can  read  English,"  said  both 
husband  and  wife  in  unison,  "and  I  want  to 
know  what  she  has  done  to  merit  this  here 
insult,  please!" 


THE  LIBRARY     .....  101 

Klotz's  dirty  finger  pointed  —  Mrs.  Klotz's 
tried  to  point — to  the  imprint  on  the  page : 
"  Society  for  the  Rational  Development  of  a 
Refined  Imagination  among  the  Respectable 
Poor." 

*  The  Respectable  Poor !  "  said  Churchwarden 
Klotz. 

Mrs.  Klotz  said,  *  The  Respectable  Poor  ! " 

"  Oh,  good  Lord,  my  wife  must  help  me  out 
of  this ! "  cried  the  Count. 

He  tried  to  bolt,  but  the  Churchwarden  barred 
the  way. 

"  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  library ! "  said 
the  little  man,  and  flung  down  the  books  on  a 
table  and  went  out.  His  big  wife  stalked  after 
him. 

11 1  hear  Klotz  has  thrown  up  the  Countess's 
book-shop!"  said  Churchwarden  Spottle  to  his  son 
Herman.  "  Well,  then,  you  can  go  next  Thursday 
and  pay  your  twopence  for  a  book.  You  needn't 
read  it — and  mind  your  sisters  don't ;  but  Klotz 
shan't  say  he  can  make  and  break  things  in  this 
village ! "  Spottle  struck  his  fist  on  the  table. 
u  Get  two  books  !  "  he  said. 

"  It's  a  long  distance,"  said  the  diplomatic  son. 
And,  indeed,  it  was  nearly  two  miles,  Klotz's 
cottage  standing  about  half-way  on  the  same 
lonely  road  across  the  dunes. 

"  They  say  Klotz  has  demanded  back  his  six- 
pence," continued  old  Spottle,  ignoring  Herman's 
complaint.  "  Get  four  books  !  You  can  say  it's 
for  the  farm-servants,  but   mind  you   don't  let 


102  THE   LIBRARY 

them  have  them.  A-keeping  them  from  their 
work." 

Rina's  arguments,  however,  so  far  softened 
her  father,  that  she,  at  least,  was  allowed  to  con- 
tinue her  subscription.  Her  face  was  the  first 
Herman  saw  when  he  entered  the  schoolroom, 
but  he  forgot  to  mention  this  fact  to  his  father  on 
his  return. 

Hilda  arrived,  accompanied  by  her  mother, 
and  everything  passed  off  well. 

The  Thursday  after  that  it  rained  cats  and 
dogs.  It  also  snowed,  and  sleeted,  and  occasion- 
ally hailed  and  thundered  a  bit,  but  whatever 
else  it  did,  it  never  left  off  raining.  It  was  bit- 
terly cold,  but,  even  while  it  froze,  it  rained. 
"It"  is  the  heaven  of  Holland,  which  can  do  all 
these  things  at  once  and  never  tire. 

"It's  no  use,  my  dear  child:  you  can't  go," 
said  the  Countess,  comfortable  and  comforting, 
under  the  lamplight,  by  the  fire.  "  Your  father 
had  to  take  the  carriage.  Never  mind :  there 
won't  be  anybody  there  in  such  weather  as  this." 

"  Oh,  but  I  must  go !  "  said  Hilda. 

"  Nonsense  !  Why,  it's  little  under  a  mile  ! 
Just  listen  to  the  wind !    And  pitch  dark ! " 

"I  can  take  Elizabeth,  and  the  stable-boy. 
You  don't  really  mind,  do  you,  mother?  You 
see,  it's  my  duty." 

The  Countess  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"  Duties  have  changed  wonderfully  since  I  was 
young,"  she  said.  So  Hilda,  escorted  by  the 
openly  grumbling  Eliza  and  the  tacitly  grumbling 


THE   LIBRARY  103 

stable-boy,  paddled  and  struggled  in  mackintosh 
and  goloshes,  all  the  cold,  windy  way  to  her 
library. 

But  she  was  rewarded.  In  the  church-room 
stood  a  solitary  figure,  Rina  Klotz.  "  Ah  !  "  said 
Hilda,  "  the  influence  of  education  !  "  She  blushed 
to  think  :  if  she  had  stayed  away  !  Why,  the  girl 
had  a  great  deal  farther  to  walk  than  she,  all 
alone,  too,  along  that  lonely  road!  How  true 
had  been  the  estimate  of  her  English  friends,  at 
which  father  and  mother,  and  even  she,  had 
smiled  a  little  incredulously.  What  a  thirst  for 
instruction,  unappeased,  dwelt  in  these  simple 
minds !  Oh,  how  wrong,  how  wrong  of  the 
cultured  classes  to  have  ignored  that  craving 
through  all  these  years ! 

"You  like  reading,  I  feel  sure,"  said  Hilda 
pleasantly. 

"  Oh,  1  love  it  more  than  anything ! "  replied 
the  girl. 

At  that  moment  Herman  Spottle  came  loung- 
ing in.  A  good-looking,  unintellectual,  rich 
farmer's  son.  Of  the  relation  between  him  and 
Rina  the  Freule  knew  nothing :  low  peasants 
were  beneath  Elizabeth's  notice ;  the  stable-boy 
grinned. 

Hilda's  heart  glowed.  The  representatives 
of  the  two  rival  factions.  Henceforth  the  com- 
plete success  of  the  undertaking  was  assured. 
Nobody  else  came.     The  weather  was  very  bad. 

"  You  like  reading,  too,  I  feel  sure  ?"  she  said, 
beaming  on  Herman. 


104  THE   LIBRARY 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  book  ?  "  she  turned 
to  Rina. 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  did.  The  hero  is  a  beautiful 
character." 

"  And  now  you  must  choose  a  new  one." 

The  girl  hesitated.  "  Oh,  please,"  she  said, 
"  while  I  make  up  my  mind,  let  Mynheer  Spottle 
choose  first." 

Herman  Spottle  looked  at  the  tempting  book- 
shelves, to  which  the  young  Countess  bowed  an 
invitation.  He  looked  at  the  volume  in  Rina's 
hands.  A  wild  longing  seized  upon  him  to  touch 
the  pages  she  had  touched,  to  read  the  words  her 
eyes  had  lingered  over,  to  find  out  what  sort  of 
hero  she  thought  a  beautiful  character. 

"  I  think  I'll  just  have  hers,"  he  said. 

The  book  was  transferred  to  his  hands.  He 
clutched  it  fondly. 

"  And  now,  you,  Miss  Klotz?"  said  Hilda. 

Rina  gazed  at  her  lover.  Only  one  reply  was 
possible.     She  gave  it. 

"  I  think  I'll  just  have  his,"  she  said. 

With  a  faint  look  of  surprise  the  young 
Countess  acceded  to  this  request  also.  That 
closed  the  proceedings.  She  trudged  back  to 
the  Manor  House,  a  little  wondering  but  very 
contented  withal.  Her  unwilling  companions 
continuously,  if  inaudibly,  cursed  the  library. 

But  the  two  lovers,  struggling  on  together, 
their  forbidden  walk,  up  and  down  the  long  and 
lonely   path — these    blessed    the    library.     The 


THE   LIBRARY  105 

wind  howled  and  the  rain  smote  among  the  sand- 
dunes.  Herman's  arm  closed  round  Rina's  waist 
and  steadied  her.  The  two  books  rested  in  his 
breast-pocket,  as  they  had  done  on  their  outward 
road. 

All  this  happened  last  winter.  It  is  said  that 
Herman  and  Rina  are  to  be  married  early  in  the 
spring,  in  spite  of  old  Spottle's  grumbling.  The 
library  continues  to  develop  as  favourably  as 
the  soil  in  which  it  has  been  planted  will  allow. 
A  new  book  was  added  the  other  day,  entitled 
"The  Greater  Glory."  It  was  bought  with  a 
scratch  lot,  second-hand,  under  the  impression 
that  it  is  a  religious  work.  The  Countess  Hilda 
believes  it  means  heaven.  But  although  its 
discovery  by  the  Board  of  Churchwardens  would 
probably  jeopardise  the  existence  of  the  library, 
there  is  little  risk  of  its  ever  being  moved  from 
the  place  where  it  reposes,  between  the  afore- 
mentioned Commentary  on  the  Colossians  and 
the  History  of  the  Council  of  Dordt. 


THE  NOD 

THE  whole  orchard  was  a  glory  of  apple- 
blossom.  A  flush  of  pink  and  white,  in 
great  clouds  of  softness,  between  the  blue  sky 
and  the  green  grass. 

Two  lovers,  young  and  pleasant  to  look  upon, 
moved  slowly  among  the  trees.  The  golden 
sunlight  played  all  about  them,  through  the 
branches  and  under  their  feet.  A  number  of 
finches  were  at  work  in  the  coppice  that 
bordered  the  apple-field.  Their  twitterings  and 
flitterings  seemed  everywhere.  One  only  had 
struck  work— to  sing.  The  world,  in  its  million 
conscious  throbbings,  was  full  of  the  music  of 
nesting  and  pairing  and  making  love.  The  buds 
burst  open  to  see. 

"  It's  no  use.  It  can't  be,"  said  the  young 
man,  despondingly.  He  was  a  tall  young  man, 
well  grown,  but  pale  and  thin,  with  the  serious 
countenance  of  a  student  who  takes  to  heart 
the  studies  he  has  chosen  for  his  own. 

"  Oh,  Bart ! "  she  said,  for  that  was  his  name 
— Bartholomew. 

"  Your  father  won't  let  us  marry,  unless  he 
can  keep  you  here  in  this  village.     And  how  can 


THE   NOD  107 

I  stay  in  the  village,  unless  they  elect  me  as 
minister  ?  And  they'll  never  elect  me  as  minister 
unless  Elder  Preek  approves  of  my  sermon. 
And  how  can  I  ever  hope  to  preach  a  sermon  of 
which  Elder  Preek  will  approve  ?  " 

He  turned  on  her  in  melancholy  triumph. 
He  had  never  put  the  case  so  succinctly 
before. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  she  replied  sadly. 
"  But — oh,  Bart !— at  least  you  might  try." 

"I  have  been  trying — turning  it  over  in  my 
mind — for  weeks  and  months,  ever  since  the 
parish  here  fell  vacant.  Trying!  Dear  Heaven, 
how  I  have  tried  !  All  these  days  I  have  been 
working  at  to-morrow's  sermon.  All  this  morn- 
ing I  have  been  polishing  it,  twisting  it,  and 
picking  out  the  faults.  What's  the  good?  It 
doesn't  read  a  bit  like  Elder  Preek ! " 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said  faintly,  "  they  won't 
mind  so  very  much  what  he  thinks." 

"You  know  better,  Katrine.  The  whole  lot 
of  them  lie  in  the  hollow  of  the  Elder's  horny 
palm.  The  religious  life  of  five  thousand  souls 
is  entirely  dependent  on  the  crabbed  theology, 
the  metaphysical  freaks,  of  a  tyrannous  old 
pump-maker.  The  Apostle  Paul  himself  wouldn't 
stand  a  chance  against  Elder  Preek." 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  meditatively, 
"  that's  what  I've  been  thinking." 

"Of  course  he  wouldn't.  Try  Preek  with 
some  properly  amended  text,  and  I'll  wager  he'll 
tell  you  it  isn't  true." 


108  THE   NOD 

"  I  don't  mean  that  exactly.  I  mean—Bart, 
I  could  never  tell  you  what  I  mean." 

" Why  not?" 

"  Because  it's  so  horribly  wicked,"  she  almost 
whispered  :  "  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  head  at 
nights,  but  it's  horribly  wicked,  Bart." 

"Can  you  think  of  wicked  things,  Katrine?" 

"  If  you  only  knew ! "  she  answered.  "  It's 
a  way  that  might  succeed,  Bart— a  horribly 
wicked  way." 

He  laughed,  and  an  apple-blossom  fluttered 
to  his  feet. 

"Supposing  you  took  an  old  sermon,"  she 
whispered,  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  "a 
very,  very  old  sermon,  one  of  those  by  the 
seventeenth-century  divines  who  preach  that 
the  chief  delight  of  the  saints  will  be  watching 
the  torments  of  the  damned,  and  supposing 
you  made  your  discourse  out  of  that  for  to- 
morrow ? "  Her  tones  were  not  absolutely 
serious,  in  spite  of  herself— a  medley  of  hope 
and  despair. 

"  It  would  spoil  in  the  making,"  he  answered. 
"  Katrine,  if  you  don't  look  out,  Elder  Preek 
will  be  enjoying  your  torments  some  day." 
Then  he  caught  her  to  his  breast  and  kissed 
her  vehemently,  miserably,  again  and  again. 
She  disengaged  herself,  but,  instead  of  smiling, 
began  to  cry.  A  moment  afterwards  she  wiped 
her  eyes. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  she  said,  looking  away.  "  All 
our  happiness — the  whole  future — ruined  by  one 


THE   NOD  109 

dreadful  old  man  !  "  And  she  walked  off  quickly 
to  the  farmhouse,  to  hide  her  face  in  her  motherly 
mother's  lap. 

Bart  Visser  also  went  back  to  his  mother,  the 
schoolmaster's  widow,  in  her  humbler  cottage 
against  the  firs.  The  shadows  were  sloping 
downwards ;  the  day  was  sinking  to  rest. 
During  their  five-o'clock  dinner  he  remained 
silent,  absorbed  in  reflections  on  ecclesiasticism 
as  contrasted  with  theology,  and  religion  as 
estranged  from  both.  His  mother,  a  proud 
smile  of  approval  on  her  countenance,  left  him 
to  what  she  believed  was  prayerful  consideration 
of  his  coming  discourse.  For  her,  as  she  sat 
munching  her  cabbage  and  sausages,  this  world 
had  but  little  left  to  pray  over.  True,  she  had 
prayed  much,  and  worked  more,  through  the 
slow  past  years.  In  poverty  and  hard  battle 
and  desperate  longing  she  had  dragged  her  only 
child  to  the  foot  of  the  pulpit  he  was  now  pre- 
paring to  mount.  And  now  Providence,  that 
had  often  seemed  inimical,  had  blessed  her 
beyond  her  wildest  aspirations.  For  there  are 
many  pulpits  in  Holland,  and  but  few  within  the 
circle  of  her  rustic  experience.  Who  could  have 
dared  to  foretell  that  the  young  candidate's  first 
trial  sermon  would  be  preached  in  the  church 
that  had  seen  him  worship  as  a  child  ?  Not  for 
a  moment  did  she  doubt  that  the  manifest  hand 
of  God,  which  had  removed  the  former  pastor, 
would  safely  pilot  the  candidate  into  the  vacant 
manse.    She  would  see  him  settled  as  pastor  of 


110  THE  NOD 

her  own  village,  the  happy  husband  of  a  not 
impecunious  and  altogether  delightful  wife. 
Every  time  she  realised  this  certain  and  imme- 
diate future,  her  eyes  filled  with  joyful  tears. 
In  a  few  days,  she  felt,  she  could  sing  her 
"  Nunc  dimittis,"  with  a  reserve,  as  will  occur, 
for  a  not  too  early  hearing. 

After  dinner  he  came  down  to  the  lamp,  with 
his  manuscript  in  his  hand.  She  established 
herself  in  her  arm-chair  and  took  up  her  needle- 
work, trembling  with  glorious  anticipation. 
Then  he  read,  uninterruptedly,  for  little  less 
than  an  hour.  Occasionally  his  voice  shook, 
but  he  eagerly  steadied  it.  Half-way,  she  laid 
down  her  needlework  in  a  tremble  on  her  lap, 
and  sat  gazing  at  him.  All  her  soul  was  in 
her  face. 

"  Amen,"  he  read,  and  remained  silent,  staring 
straight  in  front  of  him,  away  from  her.  She 
neither  moved  nor  spoke.  The  whole  room  was 
full  of  a  solemn  stillness.  And  the  look  in  the 
mother's  eyes  was  adoration — of  him. 

The  clock  struck  loudly,  eight  slow  strokes, 
rousing  him. 

"  I  shall  never  be  minister  here,"  he  said. 

"What?"  she  screamed.  Her  needlework 
fell  to  the  floor.  "  You  frightened  me,"  she  said ; 
"  but  you  were  always  like  that,  Bart — no 
courage ! " 

"  It  wants  more  courage  to  preach  that  sermon 
than  to  leave  it  unpreached,"  he  replied,  nettled. 
"  But  I  couldn't  do  better,  if  I  tried." 


THE  NOD  111 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  mother.  "It's  beau- 
tiful." 

"  Beautiful  or  not,  mother,  it  won't  '  fetch ' 
Elder  Preek.  And  you  know  as  well  as  I,  that 
the  others  '11  look  at  him  all  the  time.  If  he 
doesn't  nod — and  he  won't  nod — Heavens,  I  might 
speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, 
what's  the  use,  as  long  as  I  haven't  got  Elder 
Preek?" 

She  sat  listening,  long  after  he  had  ceased, 
bitterly,  to  speak.     Then  she  gasped  : 

"  Are  you — sure  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  so  are  you." 

"  I  don't  mean  about  their  going  by  him,"  she 
continued  in  a  curious  voice.  "That  I  know. 
But  about  his  not  approving.     Why?" 

"  Because  I  can't  get  into  his  religious  twist, 
mother.  It  is  all  a  religious  twist.  Didn't  you 
see  I  hadn't  got  it,  as  I  read  ?  " 

"No.  I  was  only  thinking  of  the  beautiful, 
beautiful  things  you  said." 

"  It's  not  the  phraseology  only.  I've  tried  to 
use  that  as  far  as  I  honestly  could,"  he  continued, 
speaking  more  to  himself  than  to  her.  "  I've 
never  said  .  .  .  but  the  subject's  too  holy  to 
dwell  upon."  He  shook  himself  irritably. 
"There  lies  my  sermon!"— he  pointed — "Jacta 
est  alea  I " 

"What,  dear?"    Her  voice  quivered. 

"The  place  is  lost.     I  can't  help  myself." 

"Godwill." 

"  No  use  asking  Him.     He  can't." 


112  THE  NOD 

Her  lips  framed  two  words,  left  unspoken. 
"  I  will,"  they  said  to  herself. 

Aloud  she  exclaimed,  almost  imperiously : 
"Read  me  parts  again.  Read  them  slowly. 
Parts  you  feel  sure  he  will  disapprove  of." 

"  I  have  expunged  those  already,"  he  said, 
with  what  would  have  been  a  twinkle  had  it  not 
died  into  a  frown.     "  Twice  as  many  remain." 

"  Read ! "  she  commanded,  and  he  obeyed.  It 
was  a  terrible  reading,  this  second  one,  of  frag- 
ments that  rose  out  of  the  smoothness  and  cut 
them  in  the  heart,  sentences  intended  to  be  gentle 
and  pious,  that  caught  false  reflections  from  the 
irony  of  his  accent  and  features  until  they  towered 
threatening  above  them,  ready  to  fall  and  crush 
truth  beneath  their  imaginary  weight.  Half-way 
she  stopped  him. 

"True,"  she  said:  "it  is  not  Neighbour 
Preek's  religion.  It  is  the  religion  of  Jesus 
Christ." 

He  did  not  answer,  for  he  could  not.  And  so 
they  sat  in  silence  till  there  came  a  knocking  at 
the  door.  Katrine  stood  before  them.  Her  breast 
heaved,  her  cheeks  were  aflame. 

He  started  up.    "  What  is  it  ?  " 

She  dropped  into  a  chair.  "I  was  coming 
here,"  she  said,  "and  Jan  Jansen  joined  me.  I 
think  he  had  been  watching  for  me.  And  he 
asked  me — he ! — to  give  you  up  and  be  his 
wife." 

"Jan  Jansen!"  cried  the  widow,  turning 
whiter  than  a  sheet. 


THE   NOD  113 

"  Preek's  nephew ! "  exclaimed  the  candidate. 

"  He's  past  forty,  and  a  ne'er-do-weel,  and  he 
drinks ! "  cried  the  indignant  damsel. 

"Thirty-eight,"  gasped  the  widow.  They 
both  stared  at  her. 

"  Don't  make  him  older  or  worse  than  he  is," 
said  the  widow,  recovering  herself  and  speaking 
with  asperity. 

"  He's  old  enough  and  bad  enough,"  said 
the  son. 

"  And  like  enough  to  be  a  dangerous  rival  to 
you,  my  boy,"  remarked  his  mother. 

Katrine  laughed,  in  scorn.  "  An  enemy  per- 
haps— not  a  rival,"  she  said.  "  I'd  die  an  old 
maid  before  I'd  marry  that  boozing,  bloated 
brute." 

The  widow  shrank  away  as  if  in  pain.  "  Yes, 
yes,"  she  murmured.  "True.  You  mustn't  die 
an  old  maid,  Katrine."  And  then  the  two  lovers 
talked  sadly  of  their  prospects,  while  the  mother 
stitched  with  downcast  eyes. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  took  his  sweetheart 
home  along  the  sleeping  meadows,  that  breathe 
in  sleep.  The  night  was  soft  about  them— he 
loved  her  as  they  went. 

By  the  plank  across  the  ditch  she  halted. 
"  Father  might  see  you  !  she  said,  and,  kissing 
him,  went  on  alone. 

She  heard  voices  at  the  open  door.  Elder 
Preek  was  saying  "  Good-bye  "  to  her  father. 

"Ah,  here  she  is!"  said  the  Elder.  "Well, 
you  can  tell  her  what  I  came  for." 


114  THE  NOD 

"  Tell  her  yourself,"  replied  her  father's  fluent 
growl.  He  was  a  violent,  bucolic,  unreasonable 
man.  Very  different  from  thin  Elder  Preek,  with 
his  clear-cut  nose  and  parchmenty  death's-head, 
and  pale  cod-fish  eyes. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  have  come  to  your  father 
to  ask  your  hand  for  my  nephew,"  announced 
the  Elder. 

"  He  shall  have  her,"  said  the  farmer. 

"The  young  man  is  devotedly  attached  to 
you,"  continued  Elder  Preek.  "  Also  he  is  not 
without  earthly  possessions." 

"  Fifteen  thousand  guilders,"  put  in  the  farmer, 
with  a  cluck  of  his  tongue. 

"  He  drinks,"  said  Katrine. 

"  Fie,  for  shame  ! "  exclaimed  the  Elder. 

u  She  shall  take  him,"  persisted  her  father. 

"Where  is  your  maiden  modesty?"  expostu- 
lated the  Elder. 

"  I  won't  marry  him,"  said  Katrine. 

"  You  shall  marry  no  one  else ! "  bellowed 
her  father." 

She  was  silent.  In  the  dusk  her  whole 
attitude  betokened  rebelliousness. 

"  I  want  to  marry  Bart,"  she  said. 

Elder  Preek  gave  a  snarl,  like  a  dog. 

"All  right!"  laughed  her  father,  spitefully. 
"  I  swear  you  shall  marry  Jan  Jansen,  or,  if  you 
don't  marry  him,  well,  then— Bart !  "  He  repeated 
the  words  with  a  truculent  snigger.  Already  he 
saw  her  mistress  of  the  fifteen  thousand  guilders. 

"  Bart !    Oh,  of  course,"  said  the  Elder.    "  Oh, 


THE  NOD  115 

yes,  of  course.  Bart !  Of  course ! "  His  tones 
were  full  of  menace.  He  left  the  two  standing 
in  the  dark  by  their  doorstep,  and  walked  away 
briskly  out  of  sight.  His  homeward  path  led 
through  a  coppice  and  a  short  stretch  of  pine 
wood.  It  was  very  dark  between  the  pines. 
He  checked  his  pace,  stumbling  occasionally  as 
he  went. 

A  single  star  had  pierced  the  blackness, 
shining  clear  through  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

"Lead  us  not  into  temptation!"  said  the 
Elder.  He  said  it  over  and  over  again  as  he 
went  along.  He  stopped  to  say  it,  with  re- 
newed energy.  Then  he  knelt  down  in  the 
dark,  on  the  moss  by  the  path-side,  and  prayed. 
He  prayed  for  guidance,  that,  in  his  high  office, 
he  might  remain  impartial,  as  an  elder  should. 
He  had  run  away  from  his  human  predilections 
by  the  farmhouse  door.  His  prayer  was  honest 
enough  in  its  way,  Heaven,  that  listened  to  it, 
knows !  He  rose,  greatly  content  with  it,  con- 
vinced of  his  moral  victory,  resolved  to  do  his 
duty.  The  clerical  question — solemn  thought ! — 
should  remain  entirely  independent  of  the  matri- 
monial one.  The  care  of  souls  is  not  a  thing  to 
tamper  with.  And  besides,  there  were  always 
the  fifteen  thousand  guilders  to  fall  back  upon. 
Whether  Bart  got  the  parish  or  not,  Jan  Jansen 
was  a  rich  man  compared  with  him. 

The  old  man  reached  home  with  a  counten- 
ance once  more  serene,  or  at  any  rate  expression- 
less.    His  wife  and  children  were  accustomed  to 


116  THE  NOD 

see  it  so.  The  unmarried  daughter  got  him  his 
Saturday  evening  "  pap  "  ;  the  wife  laid  out  his 
Sunday  things,  the  black  suit,  the  spotless  linen. 
He  cleaned  and  arranged  his  big  spectacles  as 
usual,  and  read  the  evening  chapter  out  of  Ezra, 
the  maid-servant  yawning  as  usual,  especially 
on  Saturdays,  half  dead  with  the  scrubbings  and 
sloppings,  the  earthly  tribulation  and  manifold 
mess. 

He  was  undressing  with  slow  precision,  and 
descanting  to  his  humbly  acquiescent  wife  on 
the  sacred  probabilities  of  the  morrow,  when  a 
handful  of  gravel  was  thrown  at  the  illuminated 
window-pane.  "  The  young  man  may  be  very 
worthy,  I  do  not  doubt,"  he  was  saying,  "  but, 
personally,  I  am  afraid  of  these  young  slips  of 
theology.  The  Overstad  Professors  rely  on  their 
own  talents  and  not  on  the  Word.  What,  I  ask, 
is  theology  without  the  Word?  Well,  we  shall 
see  what  we  shall  see.  But  it  isn't  learning  that 
makes  men  preachers.  It  is  power.  And  what 
is  power  but  acceptance  of  the  Word?  They 
say  the  Bible  was  written  in  Greek,  the  poor 
foolish  ones !  The  Bible  was  written  in  our 
hearts." 

His  wife,  who  had  heard  all  this  daily  for 
years,  nodded  approval,  yawning  nearly  as  dis- 
tinctly as  the  maid  had  done.  She  started  at 
the  crash  of  the  gravel,  almost  welcoming  the 
diversion  all  the  same. 

It  was  a  good  thing  the  Elder  had  not  reached 
his  weekly  tepid  tub,  or  the  whole  course   of 


THE   NOD  117 

events  would  have  been  altered.  Now  he 
solemnly  opened  the  window  and  solemnly  de- 
manded what  was  wrong. 

"  Come  down !  I  must  speak  to  you,"  replied 
a  woman's  voice. 

"  Bart's  mother!"  ejaculated  the  Elder,  draw- 
ing back  his  head. 

"  Don't  go — she  will  only  bother  you/'  ex- 
postulated the  wife. 

"  I  must,"  replied  Preek,  already  readjusting 
his  clothing. 

She  called  out  something  after  him  about  the 
water  getting  cold ;  but  his  even  soul,  suddenly 
fluttered,  was  not  in  a  mood  to  think  of  tubs. 

"  What  do  you  come  here  for  at  this  time  of 
night  ?  "  he  cried,  hurriedly  letting  the  widow  in 
and  closing  the  door.  His  voice  trembled,  with 
forebodings  of  harm. 

"  Well,"  she  replied,  "  you  can't  say  I  trouble 
you  often.  We  haven't  spoken  to  each  other  for 
— how  long  is  it? — nigh  on  forty  years." 

"  All  the  more  reason  for  me  to  ask  you  why 
you  come  to  me  now,  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and 
fling  gravel  at  the  window." 

"  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  your  children  or 
the  neighbours,"  she  made  answer.  Her  voice 
also,  in  its  gasps,  betrayed  emotion.  She  caught 
at  the  shawl  about  her  throat  and  tore  it  away. 
"  Sit  down,"  he  suggested. 
"No,"  she  said,  quickly,  like  a  blow.  And, 
fighting  for  breath  as  she  stood  against  the  wall, 
she   continued :    u  My  son's   future  is   in  your 


118  THE  NOD 

hands  to-morrow.    I  have  come  about  that.    You 
know  it.     You  must  get  him  the  parish." 

"That  will  not  depend  upon  any  favouritism 
of  mine,"  he  answered.     "  The  Lord " 

She  waved  the  phrase  aside.  "  Forty  years 
ago  you  also  used  such  words  as  those,"  she 
said. 

"  I  confess  it,"  he  answered  humbly.  "  But 
forty  years  ago  I  did  not  mean  them ;  now  I  do." 

"  I  also  mean  what  I  say,"  she  retorted  grimly. 
"Conversation  is  best  on  those  terms.  Would 
that  ours  had  always  been  such!  And  I  say 
that  you,  who  can  do  it,  must  do  this  thing  for 
my  son,  Bart.    Must! — do  you  hear?" 

"Must  me  no  musts!"  he  cried,  turning 
fiercely — yet  weakly,  as  a  cat,  not  a  dog,  turns 
at  bay. 

In  her  face  was  the  dog's  resolve.  "We 
understand  each  other,"  she  said.  "  For  nigh  on 
forty  years  I  have  not  darkened  your  door.  The 
last  time  I  stood  here,  on  this  very  spot,  a  girl 
of  eighteen,  I  had  come  to  plead  for  my  child. 
You  sent  me  away." 

"  I  looked  after  the  child,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"  Now  I  am  here  again.  Never  should  I  have 
darkened  this  door,  Jan  Preek,  but  for  the  mad- 
ness of  a  mother's  love !  Nor  shall  I  slink  away 
now,  as  I  did  then,  to  hide  myself  and  my  child 
from  your  sight.  To-morrow  I  shall  sit  opposite 
you  in  the  church.  I  shall  watch  you  all  the 
time.  You  shall  nod  that  cursed  nod  of  yours 
that  the  angels  laugh  at— or  weep;    you  shall 


THE  NOD  119 

sit  nodding  like  a — like  a  Chinese  doll,  you 
scoundrel ! " 

He  put  up  his  hand.  "  Do  not  call  me  that !  * 
he  cried  pleadingly. 

She  stopped,  aghast,  all  her  eloquence  checked. 
"  I— not— to  call  you  that  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  converted  then,  Mary.  Not  that  I 
should  dare  to  call  myself  converted  now.  But 
I  was  a  young  man.  It's  as  the  twenty-fifth 
Psalm  says  :  '  Remember  not  the  transgressions 
of  my  youth '" 

"And  1  don't  remember  them,"  she  inter- 
rupted violently.  "I've  kept  out  of  your  way, 
as  you've  kept  out  of  mine.  But  now,  by  the 
Heaven  that  hears  me,  you  shall  do  this  thing 
for  my  son  !  " 

"  Isn't  the  other  your  son  as  well  ?  "  he  cried. 
"  You  forget  that  the  one  son's  hope  is  the  other 
son's  despair !" 

"I  forget  nothing.  Could  I  but  forget  Jan 
Jansen  !  The  other  day  he  came  up  behind  me 
in  a  narrow  path.  '  Get  out  of  my  way ! '  he 
says,  drunk — and  went  stumbling  by.  '  That's 
my  son,'  says  I :  '  thank  God  no  one  knows  it 
but  I — and  you!'"  She  pointed  her  finger  on 
the  old  man's  breast.  Then  she  broke  out : 
*  He's  not  my  son,  not  he,  not  my  son.  Bart's 
my  son,  that's  the  light  of  my  eyes !  Bart's  my 
son,  that's  as  unlike  the  other  as  my  husband 
was  unlike  you ! " 

"  At  any  rate,  you've  little  cause  to  complain. 
He  doesn't   shame  you   as  he  shames  me,  my 


120  THE   NOD 

precious  so-called  nephew.  And  all  my  own 
children  so  respectable !  Oh,  dear !  But  look 
here,  Mary  " — his  tone  grew  bright  and  business- 
like— "this  marriage  with  Katrine  '11  be  the 
saving  of  him.  He's  mad  to  have  her,  and  he'll 
promise  anything.  He's  going  to  take  the  pledge 
To  save  a  sinner— eh  ?  And  that  your  own  son  ?  " 

He  peered  into  her  face.  She  gazed  steadily 
back. 

"  Not  as  good  as  Bart,  I  grant  you,"  he  went 
on.  "  But  there's  more  joy  in  heaven — you  re- 
member? He'll  settle  down  and  grow  serious, 
as  many  a  man  has  done  ! " 

"  As  you  have  done,"  she  answered. 

"My  sins  are  as  scarlet.  I  trust  that  some 
day  they  may  become  whiter  than  snow." 

"  If  they  don't,  it  won't  be  for  want  of  plaster- 
ing," she  replied,  misjudging  him  to  the  end,  in 
her  bitter  sense  of  injury.  "  Well,  you  must  know 
what  you  do.    I'm  going  back.     If  you  don't  nod 

approval    of   the    sermon    to-morrow "   she 

paused.     He  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"If  you  don't — I  get  up  at  the  end  of  the 
service  and  tell  the  story  of  Jan  Jansen  to  the 
whole  congregation." 

He  still  gazed  at  her.  It  was  no  use  trying 
to  weaken  the  meaning  in  those  steadfast  eyes  of 
hers. 

"  My  wife !  "  he  gasped. 

"  Look  to  her.  That  is  your  affair,  not  mine. 
I  have  never  troubled  her,  nor  you.  I  have  no 
desire  to    trouble    her    now.      And  you  " — she 


THE   NOD  121 

clenched  her  fist— "you  would  ruin  my  child's 
happiness!" 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  he  protested, 
desperately.  "  It  isn't  a  question  of  wanting  or 
not  wanting.     My  conscience " 

"Go,  talk  about  that  with  Jan  Jansen,"  she 
answered,  and  left  him. 

He  continued  after  her,  following  to  the  door  : 
"  The  things  of  the  house  of  the  Lord,  entrusted 
to  my  keeping " 

But  she  only  turned  in  the  dark  and  the  night- 
wind  :  "  What  I  have  sworn  I  have  sworn,"  she 
said. 

Like  a  man  dazed  he  groped  his  way  upstairs, 
to  be  scolded  by  his  wife  because  the  water  had 
gone  cold.  For  the  first  time  since  their  marriage 
he  got  into  his  bed  this  Saturday  night  unwashed. 
What  was  the  use  of  cleansing?  He  could  not 
wash  his  soul. 

Not  that  the  weight  of  ancient  sin  lay  heavy 
upon  it.  There  was  little  room  in  his  religion 
for  regrets  at  the  inevitable  perversity  of  the  old 
Adam.  Sin,  in  fact,  was  its  corner-stone.  Nothing 
could  be  more  gratifying  than  conviction  of  sin, 
especially  as  the  wrong-doing  was  always  past 
and  over  before  the  conviction  came.  You  were 
convinced  of  your  own  dead  sins  or  of  your 
neighbour's  active  ones.  But  the  sudden  results 
of  your  transgression  alive  and  screaming  around 
you — these  were  a  very  different  matter. 

He  tossed  in  his  bed  till  he  could  endure  the 
strain  no  longer.     His  was  not  the  sort  of  piety 


122  THE   NOD 

that  can  pray  lying  down  or  in  unspoken  words. 
He  got  out  on  to  the  floor,  in  the  chill  darkness, 
and,  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  poured  forth  con- 
tinuous pleadings  for  a  way  of  escape.  What  he 
asked,  but  did  not  hope  for,  was  simply  that  the 
young  man's  sermon  might  prove  a  truly  orthodox 
one,  a  source  of  blessing  unto  many,  a  legitimate 
recommendation  to  all.  What  appeal  could  be 
more  righteous  ?  If  it  were  not  granted,  then  he, 
the  Elder,  would  fall  as  a  martyr  to  the  holiest 
of  human  responsibilities— he  shuddered  as  he 
thought  of  the  depth  of  the  fall.  His  home  life, 
as  a  husband  and  father,  his  public  position,  his 
name  as  a  shepherd  of  other  people's  souls !  He 
groaned  aloud,  praying  on  and  on.  His  wife 
awoke  and  asked  if  anything  was  the  matter.  He 
answered  that  he  was  wrestling  with  the  Devil. 
She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.  To  himself, 
however,  he  felt  that  he  was  wrestling  with  God. 

Yet  the  struggle  was  clearer  than  when,  a 
couple  of  hours  ago,  he  had  wanted  to  act  on  Jan 
Jansen's  behalf.  Now  he  was  being  tempted,  in 
the  saving  of  himself,  to  lie  against  the  Almighty. 
All  this  he  saw  distinctly,  black  and  white  in  the 
routine  of  his  theological  reasoning.  He  shrank 
down  quivering  against  the  counterpane,  and 
prayed. 

In  the  morning  his  daughter  found  him  absent- 
minded.  She  was  not  surprised,  considering  the 
importance  of  the  approaching  function.  She  saw 
his  lips  move  repeatedly,  and  awe  fell  upon  her. 

The  first  face  that  he  beheld  in  the  full  village 


THE   NOD  123 

church  was  the  widow's.  When  the  organ  pealed 
forth  the  loud  words  of  the  opening  psalm,  in  an 
outburst  of  voices,  he  had  issued  from  the  vestry 
with  the  other  office-bearers,  preceding  the 
minister,  as  the  custom  is.  He  had  walked  to 
his  place  in  the  chancel,  beside  the  rest,  and, 
turning  from  a  brief  inspection  of  the  inside  of 
his  hat  (an  inevitable  form),  his  eyes  had  looked 
straight  into  the  widow's.  Those  were  the  first 
eyes  he  saw  during  the  whole  preliminary  service, 
and  the  only  ones.  They  remained  with  him, 
steadily,  deep  down  in  his  soul.  His  children 
were  in  church,  of  course,  and  his  wife ;  he  had 
made  some  feeble  attempt  to  keep  her  away, 
but  she  had  stared  at  him  in  uncomprehending 
astonishment. 

He  settled  himself  in  his  corner  for  the 
sermon;  and  to  God,  Who  beheld  him,  there 
must  have  been  an  agony  of  petition  in  the  sharp- 
set  face.  It  was  a  last  desperate  appeal,  for  him- 
self, for  the  congregation — a  hope  against  hope. 
The  nervous  young  candidate  gave  out  his  text : 
"That  your  love  may  abound!"  His  voice 
quivered  with  the  weight  of  the  words.  Elder 
Preek's  thin  lips  seemed  to  sink  away.  The 
subject  foreboded  evil — he  had  never  seen  much 
good  come  of  youthful  talk  about  "  love."  "  The 
Word  "  wasn't  love. 

The  widow's  eyes  were  upon  him.  Many  of 
the  congregation  frequently  looked  his  way.  His 
colleagues  watched  for  his  well-known  signs  of 
approval.     Solemnly  he  sat  there,  as  judge. 


124  THE   NOD 

Solemnly,  in  the  listening  silence,  the  dis- 
course flowed  on.  The  young  minister,  gaining 
confidence,  spoke  straight  from  the  heart  to  the 
heart.  But  that  comes  as  an  insult  to  a  religious 
development  which  requires  speech  from  the 
head  to  the  head.  Nevertheless,  many  there, 
especially  among  the  women,  were  touched  by 
his  simple  sincerity.  It  became  evident  that  the 
current  of  feeling  was  favourable  to  the  preacher; 
his  audience  were  with  him;  he  realised  it,  as 
every  speaker  in  such  a  case  must  do.  From  his 
pulpit  he  could  not  catch  sight  of  Elder  Preek.  It 
was  his  turn  to  hope  against  hope. 

Elder  Preek  had  given  up  hoping.  He  sat 
desperately,  his  head  thrown  back,  with  the  eyes 
of  the  congregation  upon  him,  fronting  ruin. 

One  little  motion  of  the  head!  One  little 
motion !  Just  a  feeble  sign  that  he  approved  of 
this  sentimental  twaddle  about  love  and  charity 
and  goodness,  and  all  would  be  well.  He  was 
saved ;  his  home-happiness,  his  high  position 
intact.  After  all,  the  things  the  boy  was  saying 
were  true  enough,  up  to  a  point.  There  was  no 
harm  in  them.  No  harm  ?  In  this  false  presenta- 
tion of  Jehovah?  Better  the  lies  of  atheism  than 
this  half-truth  of  love. 

"Amen!"  said  the  preacher.  The  Elder 
started,  and  a  strange  sound  escaped  from  his 
parched  throat.  The  last  word  had  rung  his 
knell.  There  is  still  an  immense  difference 
between  the  chance  you  have  resolved  not  to  use 
and  no  chance  at  all. 


THE   NOD  125 

Of  the  closing  prayer  and  the  singing  he  heard 
nothing.  Nor  did  he  hear  the  benediction;  but 
he  heard,  as  the  congregation  was  rising,  the 
widow's  voice  cry:  "Stop!"  She  spoke  very 
rapidly,  and  loudly,  less  like  a  speech  than  a  cry. 

"  This  man !  1  she  exclaimed,  pointing.  She 
stood  up  in  her  seat,  challenging  him.  The 
whole  congregation,  curious,  expectant — all  the 
familiar  faces — grouped  untidily  in  the  crowded 
aisle  and  side-seats,  the  whole  mass  of  noisy 
humanity,  suddenly  hushed. 

"  This  man,  whom  you  have  chosen  as  your 
spiritual  adviser,  whom  you  follow  as  sheep,  do 
you  know  what  he  is  ?  A  father  of  illegitimate 
children,  a  hypocrite,  and  a  rogue  ! " 

Protests  arose  at  this  violation  of  the  sacred 
edifice  andiceremony ;  but  "  Hush !  Hush ! "  cried 
other  voices,  anxious  to  know  more. 

"Jan  Jansen,  whom  he  calls  his  nephew,  is 
his  son!"  screamed  the  widow.  "And  why 
doesn't  he  approve  of  my  son's  sermon?  Because 
of  religion  and  morality?  Because  he  wants 
Katrine  Dykmans  to  marry  Jan  Jansen,  and,  if 
Bart  gets  the  church,  she'll  marry  him  !  " 

One  of  the  other  elders  had  lifted  his  hand  to 
command  silence.  The  sexton  had  drawn  near 
to  remove  the  cause  of  this  disturbance,  but  a 
couple  of  men  that  were  by  her  pushed  him 
back. 

The  candidate  stood,  white,  in  his  pulpit.  All 
his  agony  found  utterance  in  one  cry  :  "  Mother, 
don't!" 


126  THE   NOD 

"  Peace ! "  said  the  old  man,  who  had  lifted  his 
hand.     "  Go  thy  ways ! " 

But  now  the  wife  of  Preek  intervened.  She 
was  in  the  front,  red  and  shaking  with  indignation. 

"No,  indeed, — no,  by  Heaven!"  she  said: 
"  every  soul  that  has  heard  the  woman  speak 
shall  hear  her  words  proved  a  lie." 

The  widow  turned  to  her  with  contemptuous 
pity.  "  Poor  creature,  I  am  sorry  for  you"  she 
said. 

"  It  is  a  lie !  Say  that  it  is  a  lie,  Preek ! " 
The  wretched  wife  waited  for  a  moment  in 
silence. 

Preek  gazed  back  at  the  sea  of  faces.  His 
lips  did  not  move. 

She  flung  back  to  the  widow.  "  What  ghost 
of  a  proof  have  you  that  Jansen  is  his  son  ?  " 

"  He  is  mine,"  replied  the  widow.  "  His  and 
mine." 

A  thrill  ran  through  the  building.  Bart  fell 
forward  on  the  cushion,  his  head  sinking  to 
prayer. 

u  I  was  a  girl  of  eighteen,"  continued  the 
widow,  "in  service  at  Overstad.  We  were 
secretly  engaged.  Ten  years  later  I  married  the 
schoolmaster  here." 

In  the  long,  dead  silence,  "  It  is  true,"  said 
Preek. 

To  his  astonishment  he  saw  by  their  expres- 
sions that  they  were  not  inclined  to  be  hard  on 
him  for  the  sins  of  his  youth.  He  followed  up 
his  advantage. 


THE  NOD  127 

"  I  couldn't  marry  her,"  he  said  quickly ;  "  but 
I  took  care  of  the  child." 

"Yes,"  cried  the  widow;  "he  bought  the 
child  a  lot  in  the  lottery,  and  it  turned  up  a 
prize ! " 

Then  suddenly  he  realised  that,  by  this  be- 
trayal, his  cause  was  lost.  No  religious  man 
among  them  had  ever  played  in  the  lottery,  and 
such  as  had  done  so  had  never  gained  a  prize. 
A  loud  murmur  of  disapproval  ran  straight  down 
the  aisle. 

His  brethren  in  the  sacred  office  drew  away 
from  him.  He  was  left  standing  alone.  He  lifted 
his  poor  trembling  hands  to  Heaven. 

"The  zeal  of  Thine  house,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
little  louder  than  a  whisper,  "  hath  eaten  me  up  ! " 

Farmer  Dykmans  stood  in  front  of  the  church- 
wardens' pew,  shaking  a  gigantic  fist. 

"And  ye  fancied,"  he  bellowed,  "that  I'd 
bestow  my  daughter  on  a  drunken  blackguard  as 
hasn't  even  got  a  name  of  his  own  ?  " 

The  minister  still  lay  forward,  sunk  low,  with 
his  head  on  the  cushion.  In  the  face  of  the 
whole  congregation  Katrine  ran  up  the  pulpit 
stairs,  and  bending  over  him,  put  her  arm  about 
his  neck. 


A    ARGYMENT 

"  "NT  O,"  said  Baas  Slimmer,  standing,  his  legs 
IN  apart,  among  the  cackling  hens  and 
chickies  of  his  farm-yard.  "  No  !  No !  No  ! "  He 
said  each  "  No  "  louder,  till  the  last  was  quite  a 
shout.  Nobody  minded  much :  the  whole  place 
was  full  of  live  stock,  but  everybody  was  think- 
ing of  himself— of  his  or  her  immediate  oppor- 
tunities for  eating  more  than  was  good  for  them. 
It  was  feeding-time,  as  could  be  perceived  by  the 
distant  grunts  and  shrieks  and  lowings  from  the 
out-houses  on  opposite  sides  of  the  great  open 
square.  The  farmer  himself  had  thrown  an  in- 
dignant handful  of  corn  among  his  couple  of 
hundred  barn-door  fowls,  and  the  lot  of  them 
were  fighting  and  squeaking  and  treading  the 
babies  underfoot.  The  infants  emerged,  with  a 
pee-ep,  and  hastily  swallowed  their  share. 

"  No !  "  shouted  the  Baas. 

The  buxom  farm-wife  came  out  at  the  open 
door — one  of  those  Dutch  back-doors  that  break 
in  half,  so  you  can  lean  over  the  middle  and  chat. 
She  cared,  up  to  a  reasonable  point  of  disturbed 
placidity.  For  with  the  happy  insouciance  of  the 
so-called  dumb  creatures,  who  are  not  dumb  at 
all,  only  deaf,  mercifully  deaf,  to  the  cruel  things 


A  ARGYMENT  129 

we  say — with  the  cheerful  ignorance  about  com- 
ing evils  which  is  God's  chief  boon  to  his  beasts 
in  a  world  of  suffering,  with  this  foolishly  blessed 
indifference  to  possibilities,  the  thousand  little 
souls  (of  a  sort)  that  filled  the  farm  and  its  fields 
remained  callous  to  the  moods  of  the  man  who 
was  lord  of  the  life  of  each  one  of  them.  We  men 
can  do  a  lot  of  harm,  and  we  willingly  do  it,  but 
it  is  only  to  one  another  that  we  can  cause  pro- 
spective pain.  And  that,  really,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, is  something  the  brutes,  if  they  knew, 
might  be  thankful  for.  The  farm-wife,  when  her 
master  barked  very  loud,  had  to  come  and  see  what 
was  the  matter.  Though  she  knew,  from  long 
experience,  that  a-many  barks  went  to  one  bite. 

"  Dear !  dear ! "  she  said,  standing  with  a  big 
scarlet  platter  against  her  hip.  "  And  what  are 
you  shouting  at  now,  Slimmer?  The  wind?  It'll 
blow,  all  the  same." 

"  Why,  that's  out  of  the  Bible,  too ! "  replied 
Slimmer. 

"Dear  me,  so  it  is,"  said  the  farm-wife,  pleased. 

"  Don't  you  go  quoting  the  Bible  at  me  like 
Stott,"  continued  Slimmer  grumpily.  "Tisn't 
fair."  He  looked  round  on  the  hens  scuffling  all 
about  his  feet.  "A  body  can't  say  nothing  to 
answer  to  the  Bible,"  he  said.  "  The  Bible  isn't 
argument."  ("Argyment,"  he  called  it.)  "The 
Bible  isn't  argyment.  No  more  that  that  is ! "  He 
pointed  to  the  squabbling  fowls.  u  There's  no 
sense  in  that,  and  the  Bible's  above  sense,  but 
neither  of 'em's  argyment." 


130  A   ARGYMENT 

Vrouw  Slimmer  had  long  ago  abandoned  all 
attempts  at  unravelling  her  husband's  tangled 
syllogisms.  She  never  even  puckered  her  brows 
now  over  them ;  she  simply  said,  "  What  were 
you  shouting  at  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  shouting.  I  was  argufying  the 
matter  out  to  myself.  Is  it  Yes  or  No  ?  I  was 
asking  myself  quite  gently.  And  I  reasoned  out 
that  it  was  No." 

The  farm-wife  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  All 
that  fuss,"  she  said  scornfully,  "about  killing 
a  pig." 

"A  pig!"  bellowed  the  farmer.  "As  if  I 
should  argufy  about  a  pig ! " 

"You'd  argufy  about  anything,  Slimmer.  I 
thought  it  was  that  mangy  black  porker  that  the 
butcher  from  Overstad  was  wanting  to  buy." 

"  You  were  wrong,  then,"  remarked  Slimmer, 
pulling  out  his  pipe,  "  as  you  always  are.  You 
just  jump  at  things.  Like  all  women.  Poor  un- 
reasonable things.  They  jabber  and  jabber : 
they  haven't  time  to  argufy." 

"  Poor  things ! "  said  the  Vrouw,  sarcastic. 

"Now  a  man  like  me,"  continued  the  Baas, 
"  he  always  knows  when  he's  wrong.  For  why  ? 
He  reasons  it  all  out,  and  he  sees  at  once  where 
he  went  off  his  count.  It's  like  counting  apples. 
You  can't  say  there's  twenty-four  if  I've  counted 
twenty-three."  He  faced  her  triumphantly  :  "  You 
can't  say  there's  twenty-four " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  interrupted,  turning  back 
to  her  kitchen.     "  I  can  reason,  too,"  she  called 


A   ARGYMENT  131 

hastily.  "There's  something  smelling  that  means 
a  burn !  "  she  called,  and  disappeared. 

But  she  was  back  again,  soon  enough,  leaning 
over  her  green-painted  door.  "  Now,  what's  this 
fresh  fuss  about?"  she  asked,  in  a  wheedling 
tone. 

"  Fuss  ? "  he  answered  sardonically,  pulling 
at  his  pipe.  "  There's  no  fresh  fuss,  no  more 
than  there  was  this  morning.  Trust  a  woman 
to  come  fussing  about  a  fuss." 

"  Well,  a  woman  didn't  begin  it  this  morning," 
expostulated  Vrouw  Slimmer. 

"And  what's  Stottbut  an  old  woman?"  came 
the  adroit  reply.  "  I  don't  call  him  a  man.  He's 
an  old  woman,  he  is." 

"And  what  were  you  shouting  'No!'  about?" 
wheedled  the  farm-wife.  "About 'Koos'?  We'll 
soon  see  if  the  boy's  as  good  as  Stott  thinks. 
And  I  hope  he  may  be.  You  weren't  bothering 
your  head  about  that  ?" 

Her  husband  eyed  her,  under  his  drooping 
lids.  A  tall,  lean  man,  with  a  canny  face,  all 
wrinkles.  "  What  an  intelligent  head ! "  thought 
the  summer  visitors,  as  they  watched  him  gazing 
up  at  the  preacher  in  church.  The  minister  held 
a  different  opinion. 

"  Curious  ! "  said  Slimmer  slowly.  "  That 
curious !  A  woman'd  pull  down  a  stone  wall  to 
see  if  there  wasn't  a  toad  inside  !  " 

"  And  quite  right,  too,"  replied  his  better  half, 
"if the  poor  things  live  in  'em  a  thousand  years, 
as  I've  heard,  without  bite  nor " 


132  A  ARGYMENT 

"  There  never  was  a  woman  since  Eve " 

"  Oh,  be  quiet  about  Eve.  That's  all  most  of 
you  men  read  your  Bibles  for— to  say  snappy 
things  to  us  about  Eve !  " 

"  Woman,  you're  profane,"  replied  the  Baas  ; 
"as  profane  as  the  hens."  And  they  both  laughed, 
he  noiselessly,  she  aloud.  For,  at  this  morning's 
"visiting,"  the  solemn  annual  event  when  the 
minister  calls  with  an  elder  and  exhorts  the  whole 
household,  collected  in  the  kitchen,  had  not  a  fat 
white  hen,  in  the  midst  of  the  proceedings, 
scratched  her  way  into  the  minister's  wide- 
awake hat,  in  a  corner  on  the  floor,  and  there 
laid  a  much  be-cackled  eggl  And  had  it  not 
proved  quite  impossible  afterwards  to  make 
Mieken  and  Piet  and  the  rest  of  the  dull,  rubicund 
farm-servants  realise  that  there  was  only  an 
episode  which  everybody  ought  to  forget?  Nay — 
far  worse — this  is  what  actually  occurred  : 

The  hen  ran  about  and  cackled,  and  the  pale- 
faced  minister,  unsmiling,  talked  on.  His  elder, 
Jacob  Stott,  the  pork-butcher,  sat  frowning  and 
wrathful.  The  Baas  and  his  wife  looked  un- 
comfortable, feeling  somehow  personally  re- 
sponsible for  their  fowl;  the  young  people 
giggled  all  round. 

"And,  as  1  was  remarking,"  declaimed  the 
minister,  "  how,  if  you  do  not  come  to  church  " 
— raising  his  voice  in  the  din—"  can  you  expect 
to  be  benefited  by  the  sermon  ?  " 

"  Koos,  put  that  hen  out ! "  shouted  Slimmer. 
The  young  hand  jumped  up  with  alacrity  and 


A  ARGYMENT  133 

made  a  grab  in  the  direction  of  the  flutter  and 
noise.  All  he  caught  was  empty  space  and  a 
bump.  He  righted  himself  with  another  swift 
sweep  at  the  screeching  biped ;  but  the  hen  had 
dashed  against  the  farm-wife's  petticoats,  and  up 
on  the  great  open  "Book,"  and  away  over  Stott's 
apoplectic  head,  and  everybody  had  risen  now 
and  was  talking  and  laughing  at  once.  Only  the 
butcher  sat  gurgling  indignant  protests.  He  said 
it  was  done  on  purpose,  from  opposition  to  the 
true  "Confession"  and  hatred  of  "the  Word,"  just 
the  thing  that  a  rationalist  like  Slimmer— but 
nobody  heard  him,  for  they  were  all  far  too 
busy  catching  the  hen. 

All  except  the  farmer's  ten-year-old  grandson 
Tony.  Tony  had  no  time  for  the  bird :  he  was 
too  busy  with  the  egg.  He  had  taken  up  the 
egg  very  quietly,  and,  with  tender  solicitude,  he 
had  deposited  it  gently  in  the  middle  of  the 
cushions  of  the  minister's  arm-chair.  "It  would 
have  been  a  pity,"  he  said  softly  to  himself,  "if 
anybody  had  stepped  on  that  egg."  But,  once 
having  taken  these  precautions,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  no  one  joined  more  vigorously  in 
the  search  than  Master  Tony.  In  fact,  it  was  he 
who  ultimately  bundled  the  flurried  heap  of 
feathers  out  at  the  door.  Then  everybody  sat 
down  again.    The  minister  sat  down  last. 

He  first  stood  smoothing  the  ruffled  pages  of 
the  family  Bible.  He  did  it  with  a  slow  and 
loving  touch.  He  was  giving  the  people  time  to 
collect  themselves.     And,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 


134  A   ARGYMENT 

they  were  eager  to  do  so.  They  were  by  no 
means  naturally  inclined  to  irreverence — far  from 
it.  He  had  taken  the  best  means  of  calming 
them,  as  he  stood  there,  sweetly  pensive,  his 
gentle  fingers  lingering  about  the  sacred  page. 

Then  the  minister  sat  down  on  the  egg.  He 
let  himself  down  slowly.  There  wasn't  an  ear 
in  the  kitchen  but  heard  the  crunch. 

He  was  a  young  man,  athletic  outside  his 
clerical  habit.  It  was  wonderful  how  quickly  he 
was  up  again  and  had  whisked  round  to  inspect 
the  seat  of  the  disturbance.  As  his  other  side 
flashed  into  view  for  the  whole  of  the  semicircle, 
not  a  mouth,  except  Stott's,  but  sent  forth  a  roar. 
The  minister  whisked  around  once  more :  he  had 
drawn  forth  a  long  white  handkerchief;  he  stood 
rubbing  himself,  a  lank  black  figure. 

"Can  I  help  your  reverence?"  asked  the 
farm-wife,  as  grave  as  the  circumstances  would 
allow.     Graver. 

"  I  thank  you,  Vrouw,"  replied  the  minister. 
He  was  young :  he  was  momentarily  ridiculous  : 
he  felt  his  high  office,  and  a  great  deal  of  sticki- 
ness, and  cruel  insult  from  somebody  unknown. 

But  at  that  stage,  in  the  general  atmosphere 
of  hysterical  merriment  and  disapproval,  some- 
body set  up  a  howl.  That  somebody  proved  to 
be  Koos,  the  charity-child,  the  new  "boy," 
twelve  years  old,  who  had  come  in  last  Monday, 
on  sufferance,  and  done  something  wrong  ever 
since  he  came.  Everybody  looked  at  him  at 
once,  and  he  howled  the  louder.     The  Baas  had 


A  ARGYMENT  135 

turned    upon    him    his    customary   threatening 
frown. 

"Twasn't  me,  Baas!"  he  howled.  "Twasn't 
me!" 

"Then  who  was  it?"  demanded  his  master. 

"  Ay,  who  was  it  ?  "  repeated  the  minister. 

"Did  anybody  say  it  was  you?"  asked  the 
farmer's  wife.  Tony  peeped  forth  behind  his 
grandmother's  skirts. 

"The  Baas  glared  at  me  so!"  squeaked  the 
miserable  urchin. 

"Glare?  Do  I  glare?"  cried  the  furious 
Slimmer. 

"You  had  better  confess,"  said  the  minister, 
still  mopping.  (But  you  can't  mop  it  off:  it's  no 
good.) 

"  You  put  it  down,  without  thinking,  as  you 
ran  after  the  hen,"  prompted  the  Vrouw  good- 
naturedly. 

"Without  thinking,  of  course,"  echoed  Slim- 
mer. "Haven't  I  pointed  out  to  you  a  dozen 
times  a  day " 

"Confess,"  repeated  the  minister,  for  that 
was  his  religious  solution  of  every  difficulty — 
"  Confess  and  be  absolved  " — as  the  lawyer's  is, 
"  Confess  and  be  condemned." 

"I-I— didn't " 

"  Koos  I "  There  was  a  painful  silence. 
Everybody  waited. 

"Well,  p'raps  I  did,"  gasped  Koos.  He 
wanted,  in  the  first  place,  all  those  eyes  off  him. 
There  was  a  general  movement  of  relief. 


136  A  ARGYMENT 

"Why  did  you  tell  lies  before?"  questioned 
his  master. 

"I — I  didn't  remember.  If  I  did  it,  it  must 
have  been  as  missus  says,  when  I  was  running 
after  the — I  must  have  caught  it  up  to  save  it, 

and    put    it    down  without   thinking "     He 

hurried  on,   along   his    only  plausible    line    of 
defence. 

"  You  come  straight  away  with  me,"  said  Baas 
Slimmer  darkly.  "  Ever  since  I  took  ye  you've 
been  getting  into  mischief.  And  now  to  go  play- 
ing such  a  trick  on  his  reverence !  And  to  tell 
lies  over  it !  You're  a  wicked  boy,  you  are.  I'll 
teach  you  to  tell  lies.  You're  a  liar!"  He 
walked  to  the  door ;  the  boy  howled  louder  than 
ever. 

"He  isn't,"  interposed  a  burly  voice.  "He 
isn't."  Butcher  Stott  stood  out,  red.  "  I  won't 
stand  by  and  hear  one  of  our  church  children 
called  names,"  said  Butcher  Stott.  "He's  as 
good  a  boy  as  ever  had  a  good  up-bringing.  As 
good  as  all  the  other  parish-boys." 

The  minister  smiled  apologetically,  as  a  man 
whose  duty  it  is  to  recognise  a  fallacy  when  he 
sees  one. 

"  Four  and  twenty  years,"  continued  Butcher 
Stott,  "have  I  been  a  member  of  the  board, 
Slimmer.  You  don't  trouble  about  that  sort  of 
work  for  others,  you  don't.  And  never  a  boy 
but  has  turned  out  well,  in  all  that  time,  thanks  to 
our  up-bringing.  Every  mother's  son  of  'em  has 
done  well,"  he  repeated   emphatically,   "except 


A  ARGYMENT  137 

them  as  did  better,  and  died."  His  voice  dropped ; 
there  must  have  been  a  soft  spot  somewhere  in 
the  big,  apoplectic  pork-butcher.  He  walked 
across  and  deliberately  placed  his  fat  hand  on 
the  shock  head  of  the  sobbing  boy. 

"No,  he  didn't  do  it!  He  didn't  do  it,"  squeaked 
Tony  in  a  frightened  treble. 

"  Hush,  child ;  you  shut  your  silly  mouth ! " 
admonished  his  grandmother,  and  pushed  him 
back  behind  her  ample  gown. 

"  Don't  advance  more  than  you  can  prove, 
Brother  Stott,"  suggested  the  minister  gently; 
but  that  was  fuel  to  the  fire  with  the  elder,  well 
known  to  be  as  stubborn  as  he  was  soft. 

M I  can  prove  every  word  of  it,"  said  Stott 
doggedly.  "  And  that's  more  than  Slimmer  can 
do.  There  was  Kupkens,  that  rides  his  blue  gig 
this  day ;  there  was  Pottel,  that  wags  his  tongue 
in  the — I  beg  your  reverence's  pardon!  But 
there  !  it's  casting  pearls  before  swine — not  in- 
cluding your  reverence,  of  course."  He  shook 
himself  and  stepped  back.  "That  boy's  a  good 
boy,"  he  persisted.  "  Like  all  the  rest.  It's  the 
edification" — he  meant  education — "does  it." 

"A  boy  can  be  edified  and  go  wrong  all  the 
same!"  cried  Slimmer.  "To  say  a  boy  can't  go 
wrong  'cause  he's  been  taught  different  isn't 
argyment." 

"  Isn't  argyment  ?  Isn't  argyment  ?  "  stuttered 
Stott. 

"  No,  brother,  no ;  it  isn't  argument,"  said  the 
minister.     He  was   still  rubbing.     Occasionally 


138  A   ARGYMENT 

he  stopped,  but  then,  in  sheer  stickiness,  began 
again. 

"Isn't  argyment?"  cried  Stott,  purple  in  the 
face,  falling  back  and  staring  at  the  lot  of  them. 
"  And,  pray,  what  does  the  Scripture  mean,  your 
reverence,  when  it  says,  Bring  up  a  child  in  the 
way  he  should  go,  and  when  he  is  old— when  he 

is  old "    He  floundered.     Nobody  helped  him 

out. 

"That  boy  isn't  old,"  objected  the  argumen- 
tative Slimmer. 

"You  say  it,  Koos."  Stott  pushed  the  child 
forward. 

"  He  will  not  depart  from  it,"  said  the  charity- 
child. 

"The  devil  can  quote  Scripture  to  his 
purpose,"  remarked  the  Baas  sententiously. 
And  the  servants  all  hee-hawed  with  delight  at 
their  master's  'cuteness.  Oh,  he  was  'cute,  was 
old  Slimmer.     Better  not  "  argy  "  with  him  ! 

"But  he  can't  change  it,"  retorted  Stott 
triumphantly.  He  had  his  triumph,  if  it  was  one, 
all  to  himself.  Slimmer's  servants  understood 
only  Slimmer's  successes.  And  the  minister 
disapproved,  as  unprofessional,  of  theological 
discussions,  in  his  presence,  by  members  of  his 
flock. 

"These  children,"  continued  the  pork-butcher, 
elder,  and  poor  guardian,  unabashed,  "  have  been 
brought  up  in  the  path.  They  was  never  whipped, 
but  they  was  told  it  was  the  path,  and  so  they 
couldn't  depart  from  it.     See  this  boy  say  his 


A  ARGYMENT  139 

text  pat !  He's  a  good  boy  or  the  Bible's  wrong, 
minister.    You  can't  get  away  from  that ! " 

"  H'm !    H'm ! "  said  the  minister. 

"Now,  which  is  it  to  be,  your  reverence?" 

Slimmer  came  to  his  pastor's  rescue.  "  The 
Bible  isn't  argyment,"  he  said. 

"  You're  a  infidel,"  responded  the  elder.  "  It's 
rank  blasphemy  to  hear  you  talk,  and  his 
reverence  standing  by !  Now,  the  children  that's 
brought  up  in  your  house" — he  pointed  a  fat 
finger  at  Tony,  who  had  ventured  forward,  open- 
mouthed,  and  now  hastily  retreated — "  if  they  was 
to  go  losing  their  bearings,  it  wouldn't  be " 

"  You  leave  that  child  alone ! "  burst  out  the 
grandfather,  suddenly  infuriate.  "That  child's 
been  brought  up  by  a  angel  in  heaven!"  His 
voice  faltered.  "If  that  child  isn't  as  good  as 
gold,  then  your  Bible  is  wrong,'  he  said. 

"Hush!  Hush!"  interposed  the  minister. 
There  was  no  use,  surely,  in  continuing  the 
visitation.  He  lifted  his  hand  for  the  benedic- 
tion and  passed  majestically  out.  A  titter  ran 
behind  him. 

"  I'd  better  take  this  boy  along  with  me,  as  he 
doesn't  suit,"  said  the  elder,  pausing  near  the 
doorway.     The  boy's  heart  gave  a  leap, 

"And  who's  to  pay  me  for  the  damage  he's 
done?"  demanded  Slimmer.  He  pointed  to  the 
chair.  "  My  mother's  chair,"  he  said  solemnly. 
"  She  stitched  every  stitch  of  it  herself." 

"  The  pretty  dove  with  the  olive-branch,"  said 
the  sorrowing  Vrouw. 


140  A  ARGYMENT 

"They'll  think  it's  the  flood,  begun  over 
again,"  replied  the  heartless  elder.  He  reflected  : 
the  place  was  a  good  one  ;  the  couple  worthy,  in 
spite  of  the  husband's  fierce  manner  at  times. 
"I'll  leave  him  with  you,"  he  said  measuredly, 
"if  you'll  promise  not  to  ill-treat  him.  I'll  leave 
him  with  you  a  whole  month,  to  work  off  the 
damage,  and  that's  handsome,  for  if  he  done  it, 
he  done  it  by  accident  and  no  harm  intended. 
And  at  the  end  of  that  month  you'll  tell  me  he's 
a  good  boy,  and  then  "—he  threw  out  his  chest — 
"  then  we'll  know  who  was  right."  He  waved  his 
hand  to  the  Vrouw.  " I  can  trust  you"  he  said. 
"Slimmer  is  cranky,  and  his  religion  isn't 
orthydox.  But  you'll  do  the  right  thing  by  me 
and  the  boy,  and  the  blessed  Bible,  and  you 
won't  say  he's  a  bad  boy  when  he  isn't." 

"Well,  brother?"  queried  the  minister,  turn- 
ing back  to  the  door. 

"Coming,  your  reverence.  Is  it  a  bargain, 
Vrouw?" 

The  boy  was  a  strong  boy  and  a  willing. 
"  I'll  keep  him  a  month,"  said  Slimmer,  nodding. 
"  And  if  he's  a  good  boy  all  the  time — well,  that's 
argyment."  He  walked  out  after  the  minister, 
showing  him  respectfully  across  the  yard. 

"  It  was  his  imp ;  I  saw  it  myself,"  whispered 
Mieken  to  Piet. 

"Hold  your  tongue.  'Tis  as  much  as  your 
place  is  worth,"  answered  Piet.  "  See  how  the 
master  burst  out  when  they  talked  about  his 
daughter ! " 


A   ARGYMENT  141 

For,  indeed,  all  that  was  happiest  in  Hendrik 
Slimmer  had  been  put  away,  a  few  months  ago, 
in  his  darling  daughter's  grave.  All  her  life  she 
had  done  what  he  wanted  her  to  do,  excepting  in 
the  grave  case  of  her  marriage,  and  then  he  had 
argued  himself  into  accepting  her  point  of  view. 
It  had  taken  him  three  months,  but  he  had  done 
it.  It  was  natural,  after  all,  that  a  girl  should 
love  a  smart  young  soldier;  it  was  reasonable 
that  the  soldier  should  carry  her  off  to  the  Indies  ; 
it  wasn't  illogical  that  he,  being  a  brave  man, 
should  fall  there  in  battle,  dying  a  hero's  death. 
The  widow  need  not  have  followed  him  within 
a  year,  consigning  her  only  boy  to  her  parents. 
Still,  even  that  was  like  the  dear,  fond,  beautiful 
creature.  She  could  do  no  wrong,  and  whatever 
she  stood  responsible  for,  including  Tony,  must 
be  reasoned  out  right.  Thus  it  was  that,  a  couple 
of  hours  after  the  minister  had  left,  Baas  Slimmer 
stamped  about  the  courtyard,  meeting  Stott's  base 
insinuation  of  possible  error  in  the  immaculate 
grandchild  with  an  ever-increasingly  vehement 
"No!" 

"Imagine!"  he  said  to  Vrouw  Slimmer. 
"Comparing  Hendrika's  child  with  a  ne'er-do- 
well  parish  waif!" 

"  But  he  was  strong,"  objected  the  wife,  frown- 
ing heavily,  "with  his  Bible  argyment." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense ! "  cried  the  exasperated 
farmer.  "  I  tell  you  the  Bible  isn't  argyment. 
The  Bible's  religion.  '  The  apple  doesn't  fall  far 
from  the  tree.'    Thafs  common-sense.     I've  been 


142  A   ARGYMENT 

thinking  it  over  ever  since  the  minister  went. 
That's  proverbs,  and  proverbs  is  the  aggravated 
wisdom  of  the  centuries,  as  I  read  the  other  day, 
and  it's  very  true." 

"  Is  it  Bible  proverbs  ?  "  asked  the  good  wife 
anxiously. 

"No,  it's  not.  It's  just  human  reasoning. 
The  apple  doesn't  fall  far  from  the  tree." 

"  But  the  other  must  be  true  if  it's  in  the 
Bible,"  said  the  Vrouw. 

He  exploded  at  female  perversity,  and  strode 
up  and  down,  kicking  his  feet  right  and  left,  so 
that  the  fowls  scurried  away  all  around  him. 

"  Then  the  boy  didn't  lie  about  not  having  done 
it ! "  he  cried.  "  And  he  didn't  confess  afterwards 
that  he  had !  And  he  didn't  put  the  egg  into  the 
minister's  chair,  making  us  a  scandal  and  a  dis- 
grace, with  our  visitation,  all  over  the  village  ! 
Oh,  you  old  women,  Stott  and  you  ! " 

"  We  shall  soon  see  what  he's  made  of,"  she 
said,  troubled. 

He  came  back  to  her.  "  We  shall  indeed,"  he 
said,  dropping  his  voice.  "  Off  he  goes  in  half 
an  hour,  or  I'm  much  mistaken.  I've  given  him 
a  big  bag  of  apples  to  count.  *  There,  count  'em,' 
I  says ;  '  I  don't  know  how  many  there  are.'  But 
I  do  know.  There's  two  hundred  and  thirteen. 
There'll  not  be  more  than  two  hundred  and 
twelve,  I  guess,  in  that  sack,  when  he  brings  it 
round  to  me." 

"  Oh,  is  that  fair  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"Fair  ?  It's  what  they  call  a  Jew-dicial  inquiry. 


A  ARGYMENT  143 

Proof  positive  of  Elder  Stott's  up-bringing — yah ! 
Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  be  beaten  in  a  argy- 
ment  by  Elder  Stott  ?  D'ye  think  "—he  came  and 
stood  in  front  of  her — "  there's  a  soul  in  the  village 
don't  know  I  can  argy  better  than  Elder  Stott  ? 
Where'd  I  be  ?  Tell  me  that,"  he  cried— "  if  I 
was  beaten  in  a  argyment  by  Elder  Stott ! " 

"  You  can't  beat  the  Bible,"  she  said  stolidly. 

"A  pork-butcher,"  he  answered,  "yah !" 

"  And  they  do  bring  up  the  children  good  as 
gold,"  she  added. 

"  I  do  believe  you  want  the  boy  to  prove  an 
angel,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  do.     Poor  little  orphan  chap ! " 

At  this  moment  the  youth  in  question  appeared 
in  the  door  of  an  out-house  and  advanced, 
stumbling  under  the  weight  of  his  bulgy  sack. 

"  Come  along ! "  cried  the  farmer.  "Come  here, 
Koos !  Put  it  down,  boy.  Put  it  down.  Now, 
how  many  apples  are  there  in  that  sack  ?  " 

The  boy  thrust  his  burden  from  him,  and 
waited  a  moment,  gasping  for  breath. 

"  Now,  then,  speak  up ! "  cried  the  farmer 
triumphantly.  "  And  let  me  tell  you  beforehand 
that  I  know ! " 

"  If  you  know,  why  must  I  tell  you  ?  "  said 
Koos. 

"  None  of  your  lip  to  me ! "  cried  Slimmer. 
"  You  answer  me  immediately !    Now  ?  " 

"  There's  two  hundred  and  thirteen.  I  counted 
'em  three  times,"  said  Koos. 

"  Aha !  "  exclaimed  the  Vrouw. 


144  A   ARGYMENT 

Her  husband  turned  on  her.  "  Hold  your 
tongue,  you  fool ! " 

The  boy  looked  surprised.  "  Tony  helped  me 
to  count,"  he  said. 

"  Aha ! " — it  was  the  farmer's  turn,  a  great  deal 
louder  than  his  wife.  His  little  plan  of  proof 
had  failed,  but  no  wonder.  Frustrated  by  the 
presence  of  that  innocent  child.  "Very  well," 
he  said  with  dignity.  "  Very  well.  Go  away 
now,  and  do  something  else." 

"And  what  am  I  to  do,  please,  master?" 

"Ask  Piet,"  said  the  Baas,  collecting  his 
thoughts. 

"  Go  and  clean  yourself  for  dinner,"  said  the 
farm-wife. 

The  boy  slouched  away. 

"  Please,  Baas,  I  want  a  word  with  you,"  spoke 
Mieken.  She  was  scarlet  in  the  face,  but,  then, 
she  was  always  that.  Her  manner,  however, 
betokened  unusual  agitation. 

"  Be  quick,  then  !  I  don't  want  to  be 
bothered." 

"  Piet  says  it's  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth, 
but  I  can't  help  it.  1  can't  stand  by  and  see  the 
innocent  respected  "  (suspected,  she  meant). 

"You  mind  your  own  business,  Mieken  !" 

"  Why,  isn't  this  a  Jew-dicial  inquiry  ?  "  cried 
the  Vrouw.     Her  curiosity  was  eager  for  a  cue. 

"  It  was  Tony  put  the  Qgg  down ;  I  saw  him 
do  it,"  gasped  the  maid. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  the 
Baas  said,  "  I  don't  believe  it." 


A   ARGYMENT  145 

"  I  can  prove  it !  "  cried  Mieken. 

"If  it's  proved,  I  must  believe  it,"  said 
Slimmer. 

"  For  Piet  saw  him,  too,"  said  the  maid. 
"  And  so  did  Koos,  for  the  matter  of  that." 

"  Well,  after  all,  it  was  only  a  bit  of  mischief 
in  the  child,"  began  the  Vrouw.  "  He  didn't  mean 
no  serious  harm.  And  a  egg's  a  very  tempting 
thing,  for  a  bit  of  mischief,  for  any  child,  and  so 
it  is ! " 

"  Go,  Mieken !  "  said  the  farmer,  with  averted 
face.     "  Go,  tidy  yourself  for  your  dinner." 

"  And  you  come  too,  Baas,"  said  the  wife. 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  want  any  dinner." 

"  What  nonsense,  man  !  " 

"  I  can't  see  Tony  !  " 

Immediately  her  manner  changed.  "Why, 
husband  !  "    She  came  close  beside  him. 

"  It's  not  his  playing  a  trick,  though  I  couldn't 
have  done  that  at  his  age.  But  it's  his  letting 
us  think  it  was  the  other  boy." 

"  Why,  he's  only  a  child.    He  was  afraid." 

"  His  mother's  son  couldn't  tell  a  lie,  and  his 
father's  son  wouldn't  be  afraid.  The  apple  doesn't 
fall " 

"  Oh,  you  argufy  and  argufy ! "  cried  the 
Vrouw.  "You  should  stick  to  your  Bible, 
Slimmer ! " 

"What? "he  exclaimed,  exasperated.  "You 
take  Stott's  side  ?  That's  the  worst  of  all.  Stott 
is  right,  then,  and  I  am  wrong?" 

"The  boy's  a  good  boy,  sure  enough;  he 


146  A  ARGYMENT 

wouldn't  tell  of  Tony.    I'll  remember  that."    She 
nodded  meaningly. 

"And  Stott  is  right  when  he  argufies  that 
Hendrika's  child " 

She  laughed  aloud.  "  No,  he's  wrong ;  don't 
you  see  that,  stupid?  For  that  child  has  been 
trained  by  a  angel,  as  you  said.  All  the  same, 
he  ain't  a  saint." 

"  But  I'm  just  as  wrong  as  he,"  cried  Slimmer, 
"  for  the  apple " 

She  put  up  both  hands  to  her  ears.  "  Oh,  you 
argufy  and  argufy  till  you're  crazed,"  she  said. 

Something  plucked  at  her  gown. 

"  Please,  grandmother  !  Please,  grandfather ! " 
said  a  feeble  voice.  Master  Tony  stepped  in 
front  of  the  couple.  His  manner  was  determined, 
though  his  colour  was  faint.  "  Please,  grand- 
father, I  put  the  egg  there,"  said  Tony,  and  closed 
his  eyes,  awaiting  his  fate. 

"  Oh,  Tony,  how  could  you  be  so  careless !  ** 
cried  the  condoning  Vrouw. 

"  No,  I  did  it  on  purpose,"  said  Tony. 

"  But  what  for  ?  "  demanded  his  grandfather. 

"  For  fun." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Slimmer. 

"  I  do,"  said  the  helpful  Vrouw. 

"  But,  then,  why  do  you  come  and  tell  us 
now  ?  "  persisted  the  grandfather.  "  Did  Mieken 
advise  you  to?" 

"  Mieken  ?  No,  I  came  of  myself,"  replied  the 
young  man  proudly.  "  I  remembered  what 
mother  always  used  to  say." 


A  ARGYMENT  147 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  asked  the  Vrouw,  in  a 
whisper. 

"  Be  good  if  you  can,  'and,  if  you  can't,  be 
honest,"  came  the  prompt  reply. 

Radiant,  the  old  woman  drew  the  old  man 
aside.  "You'll  believe  in  the  Bible  next  time," 
she  said. 

He  turned  quickly  to  his  grandson.  "  Why 
didn't  you  be  honest  at  once  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  did  try  to  speak,  but  grandmother  wouldn't 
let  me.  So  I  thought  I'd  wait  till  the  minister 
was  gone."    A  pause. 

"  I  stayed  with  Koos,  so  you  couldn't  hurt 
him,"  continued  the  child  eagerly,  "and  I  helped 
him  with  the  apples,  and  I  told  him  I  was  coming 
to  tell  you.    And  so  I  did." 

Baas  Slimmer  gazed  sternly  at  his  little  grand- 
son. "You'll  have  to  go  and  'pologize  to  his 
reverence,  young  man,"  he  said.  "And  take  a 
note  from  me  to  ask  his  reverence  to  punish  you 
as  he  thinks  best." 

"  Yes,  granfer,"  said  Tony,  with  a  gulp. 

"  I  should  think,  in  all  probability,  he'll  give 
you  a  good  beating." 

Tony  was  unable  to  express  his  feelings. 

"  Aren't  you  afraid  to  go  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Say :  aren't  you  afraid  ?  " 

"Yes,    granfer.      But   mother    said "    A 

dead  stop. 

The  old  Vrouw  bent  over  him.  "  Well, 
Tony  ?  " 


148  A  ARGYMENT 

M  Mother  said  " — a  sob — "  that  father  always 
said,  'twasn't  no  shame  being  afraid,  but" — another 
sob — "  not  doing  things  because  you  was." 
"  And  you  think  so,  too,  Tony  ?  " 
"  I'm  going  to  be  like  father  was." 
Old  Slimmer  caught  his  grandson's  arm  in  a 
grip  that  made  the  young  hero  squeal.     "Now," 
he  turned  to  his  wife  with  fierce  joy,  "was  I 

right  or  was  I  wrong  ?    An  apple " 

"  Oh,  you  argufy "  smiled  the  farm-wife. 

"  I    don't  argufy,"  replied  her  husband  im- 
pressively.    "  I  never  argufy.     I  goes  by  proof." 


THE   CONTRACT 

HE  was  a  man  of  business.  So  he  was  a 
cheat.  The  world  he  lived  in  highly 
honoured  him.  In  America,  to  become  President 
of  a  Trust  or  of  a  Republic,  it  is  necessary  to 
teach,  or  at  least  to  have  taught,  in  a  Sunday 
school.  Thomas  van  Crook,  not  living  in  the 
American  Koopstad,  could  peacefully  sleep  away 
his  well-earned  Sunday  afternoons.  He  dis- 
approved of  Sunday  schools.  He  said  that  they 
delegated  to  strangers  the  holiest  duties  of  the 
parent. 

He  was  a  churchwarden.  That  may  not  have 
been  necessary,  but  in  his  particular  gin-trade  it 
was  desirable.  For  his  peculiar  business  was 
the  purchase  on  a  large  scale  of  the  cereals,  etc., 
required  in  the  production  of  inferior  spirits  and 
cheap  coloured  liqueurs.  It  was  an  international 
business.  Potatoes  and  beetroot  in  vast  quan- 
tities from  Germany ;  maize  from  America ; 
glycerine  for  the  sticky  drinks ;  saccharine  for 
the  sweet  ones;  chemical  essences  with  some 
fancy  taste  of  fruit,  from  factories  all  over  the 
world.  These  things  he  passed  on  to  the  dis- 
tillers, who  founded  seventeen  successful  eye- 
openers  and  nightcaps  upon  the  potato  alone. 


150  THE   CONTRACT 

His  summers  the  merchant  spent  in  a  rural 
neighbourhood,  not  more  than  fifty  miles  from 
his  office.  He  had  a  cottage  there  covered  with 
crimson  rambler  and  honeysuckle.  It  was  always 
freshly  painted  and  in  excellent  repair,  like  all 
things  dependent  on  him,  himself  included.  He 
liked  the  peaceful  Saturday  to  Monday  amidst 
his  prosperous  family ;  he  approved  of  the  drowsy 
village  church,  in  whose  prominent  pew  a  clean- 
shaven, red-necked  city  potentate,  with  stiff  white 
collar  and  benignant  eye,  cut  a  figure  deserving 
notice  by  God  and  inferior  men. 

Always  :he  listened  to  the  sermon,  and  fre- 
quently he  enjoyed  it.  He  would  drop  away  for 
ten  minutes  unavoidably  while  calculating  gains 
and  losses  on  the  Corn  Exchange,  but  he  easily 
and  willingly  returned  to  the  familiar  estimate  of 
sin  and  faith.  Sunday  after  Sunday  the  minister 
reckoned  out  that  illogical  equation  and  balanced 
x  with  x.  The  corn-buying  churchwarden  nodded 
acceptance;  there  were  no  fluctuations  in  par- 
sonry  as  in  his  own  terribly  speculative  trade. 

In  his  religion,  which  was  all  theology,  he 
was  perfectly  sincere.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
hypocrite  about  this  man.  Unless  you  fully 
understand  this,  his  little  bit  of  story  can  have 
no  interest  for  you.  Read  some  simpler  tale  of 
a  facile  Uriah  Heep. 

He  had  grown  up  in  a  parody  of  Calvinism, 
sucking  it  in  with  his  mother's  milk  and  uncon- 
sciously seeing  it  lived  all  day  around  him.  Made 
sure  of  his  own  election  one  morning  by  some 


THE   CONTRACT  151 

wonderful  chance — one  against  ten  thousand — he 
had  settled  down  into  the  easy  conviction  that 
man  is  very  evil  and  God  is  very  good.  Hence- 
forth all  the  rest  was  plain  sailing.  He  read 
constantly  the  word  of  the  Bible,  not  its  con- 
tents ;  he  prayed  daily,  against  no  individual  sin. 
How  could  he  have  reproached  himself  with 
errors,  of  whose  existence  he  was  quite  unaware  ! 
Had  any  one  suggested  to  him  that  religion  and 
life  were  not  inextricably  intermingled,  he  would 
have  burst  out  in  indignant  disclaimers.  "  Faith 
without  works,"  he  would  have  repeated,  "is 
dead." 

He  was  a  loving  husband  and  father,  the 
happy  head  of  a  united  household,  the  careful 
tender  of  a  sheltered  home.  His  wife  and  children 
adored  him.  His  servants  and  the  clerks  in  his 
office  respected  and  liked  him. 

There  were  no  secrets  in  his  life  or  ugly 
corners.  In  his  intercourse  with  other  men  he 
was  upright  and  very  generous.  Beggars  spoke 
well  of  him.  His  trade  was  all  untruth,  over- 
reaching and  cheatery,  and  that,  of  course,  was 
very  right. 

He  sat  in  his  private  office  this  beautiful 
August  afternoon  and  cast  wistful  glances  at  the 
solemnly  ticking  clock.  It  was  a  Saturday.  He 
hoped  to  get  away  by  the  2.45,  and  spend  a 
couple  of  hours  playing  with  the  children  before 
dinner.  The  children  had  called  after  him  that 
morning  to  remember  their  half-holiday. 

There  were  four  of  them  waiting  for  him  at 


152  THE   CONTRACT 

home.  He  could  see  their  expectant  faces  at  the 
garden  gate — now,  as  he  looked  out  into  the  dull 
droning  of  the  city — he  could  hear  their  voices 
calling  out  to  him  to  come  and  play  golf-croquet. 
He  had  grown  too  portly  for  tennis;  from  his 
youth  up  he  had  detested  all  games  and  preferred 
the  multiplication  table.  He  had  been  one  of 
those  boys  who  incessantly  sell  and  bargain  at 
school.  He  delighted  in  playing  croquet  with 
his  children. 

There  were  four  of  them,  three  girls,  and 
the  youngest — longed-for,  cherished,  almost  wor- 
shipped— was  the  boy  Tommy  :  Tommykin, 
Thomas  van  Crook,  Junior,  the  hope  of  the 
family  and  the  firm. 

The  clerk  entered  and  announced  Mr.  Loder. 
A  faint  smile  of  scornful  satisfaction  flickered  up 
in  the  corners  of  Thomas  van  Crook's  coarse, 
rubicund  face. 

"Show  him  in,"  he  said  pompously,  "and 
send  " — with  another  glance  at  the  clock — "  for  a 
cab."  Then  he  called  the  clerk  back.  "  Is  your 
mother  better  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  much,  sir.    She  continues  very  weak." 

"You  must  get  her  some  more  of  that  tonic 
wine.     I  forget  the  price.     Bring  me  the  bill." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.     Thank  you." 

"  Mind  you  bring  it  receipted." 

Mr.  Loder  was  shown  in.  A  tall,  spare  man, 
with  an  intellectual  cast  of  features  and  seedy 
clothes  ;  not  a  man  like  Thomas,  not  a  man  with 
whom  life  had  gone,  or  was  ever  likely  to  go, 


THE  CONTRACT  153 

smoothly.  Eyes  that  bore  in  them  uncertainty 
as  regarded  God  and  himself  especially  and  the 
projects  of  his  fellow-men. 

"  A  beautiful  day/'  said  Van  Crook,  motion- 
ing towards  a  chair.  The  other  acquiesced,  sitting 
down.  "  I  hope  it  will  continue  fine."  Thomas 
spoke  with  importance,  as  if  his  wishes  on  the 
subject  should  be  taken  into  consideration.  "  I 
like  the  Sabbath  Day  to  be  beautiful,  bright  and 
sunshiny.  That  is  as  it  should  be.  The — Sabbath 
— Day.  To  business  men  like  you  and  me, 
Loder,  worried  with  our  daily  business  worries, 
an — inestimable — boon." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  "yes."  And  he 
twirled  his  hat  between  his  fingers. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  my  little  place  in  the 
country  presently.  Oh,  quite  a  simple,  humble 
little  place — a  mere  cottage.  But  we  are  happy 
there,  my  wife  and  I,  with  the  children.  Do  you 
get  away  into  the  country  from  Saturday  to 
Monday,  Loder?" 

"  Ah,  yes,  children  ! "  exclaimed  the  visitor, 
and  a  sudden  light  flashed  despairingly  across  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  had  caught,  with  his  hand,  at  a 
fading  ray  of  sunshine.  "You  have  children, 
Van  Crook  ?  " 

"Three  girls  and  a  boy.  You  see,  I  am  in 
rather  a  hurry.  My  train  goes  at  2.45.  I  have 
sent  for  a  cab." 

"  A  moment — a  moment,"  said  the  other,  dazed. 

"  But  business,  of  course,  goes  before  every- 
thing else.     Is  it  another  contract  for " 


154  THE  CONTRACT 

"No,  by  God !"  said  Loder. 

Horror-struck,  Thomas  van  Crook  lifted  a 
deprecating  hand. 

"You  mean  that  one  ought  not  to  swear," 
said  Loder.  "You  are  right.  One  ought  not 
to  swear." 

The  clerk  entered,  behind  the  speaker's  back, 
and  said  the  cab  was  waiting.  Thomas  van  Crook 
took  out  his  watch,  but,  to  make  quite  sure  : 

"Still,  I  suppose  it  is  a  matter  of  business 
you  have  come  to  speak  to  me  about?"  he  said, 
a  trifle  testily. 

"  It  is." 

Van  Crook  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  folded 
his  fat  arms  across  his  stiff  white  waistcoat. 
And  again  that  gleaming,  scornful  satisfaction 
appeared  about  the  corners  of  his  face. 

The  wretched  visitor,  who  had  sunk  away 
into  his  own  lap,  as  it  were,  made  a  great  effort, 
bracing  himself,  bending  forward. 

"  That  contract  of  ours,"  he  gasped.  "  About 
the  maize !     It  holds  good  ?  " 

There  was  but  the  faintest  note  of  interroga- 
tion about  his  voice,  but  Thomas  van  Crook's 
eyes  became  round  with  astonishment. 

"  Of  course  it  holds  good ! "  he  said. 

"Of  course  it  holds  good,"  repeated  Loder. 
He  sat  staring  in  front  of  him,  and  his  lips 
moved  as  if  he  were  repeating  the  words,  like 
an  echo,  internally. 

Van  Crook  struck  his  finger-tips  impatiently 
on  the  desk  by  his  side. 


THE  CONTRACT  155 

"  Fifty  thousand  ! "  burst  out  Loder,  suddenly. 

"  Fifty  thousand,"  repeated,  in  level  tones, 
Thomas  van  Crook. 

"  At  five  and  three-eighths." 

"At  five  and  three-eighths,"  acquiesced  the 
other. 

"The  price  is  up  to  seven  and  a  quarter." 

Loder's  voice  shook;  he  dropped  his  hat  on 
the  floor. 

"So  I  see."  Van  Crook  rose  from  his  chair. 
"  I  fear  I  must  be  going." 

"  Stop  a  moment — stop  ! "  cried  the  other, 
starting  up.  "  That  means  a  loss  to  me  of  ninety- 
three  thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty.  Stop  ! 
Doesn't  that  work  out  right?  Ninety-three 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty  ?  " 

"I  suppose  so.  Yes,  yes.  I  suppose  so," 
Van  Crook  replied,  hastily. 

He  tried  to  escape  from  the  hand  on  his 
sleeve,  as  he  made  for  the  door.  But  a  lean 
finger  and  thumb  held  on  tight  to  a  pinch  of 
black  cloth. 

"  Listen  to  me.  Listen  for  a  moment,"  per- 
sisted Loder.  "  Ninety-three  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  fifty.  Just  imagine  what  it  means 
to  me.     Realise  what  it  means.     Ruin  ! " 

Van  Crook  turned  straight  round,  with  the 
suddenness  of  a  fierce  resolve. 

"  Are  you  out  of  your  wits  ?  "  he  said.  "  What 
have  you  come  here  for  ?  Are  you  a  business 
man  or  a  fool  ?" 

"  Both,"  replied  Loder. 


156  THE  CONTRACT 

"  Then  I  am  sorry  for  you.     Good-day." 

But  the  unwelcome  visitor  stood  across  the 
doorway. 

"You  bind  me  down  to  this  contract?"  he 
persisted.  "You  expect  delivery  on  Monday 
next?" 

"  The  man  is  mad,"  answered  Crook. 

"  Of  course.  I  expected  you  to  do  so.  I  have 
not  come  to  ask  you  to  rescind  our  agreement. 
I  am  not  mad.  All  I  ask  is  for  a  day's  delay. 
Twenty-four  hours  ;  that  is  all.  Tuesday,  Van 
Crook ;  not  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

There  was  entreaty  in  his  voice,  too  much 
entreaty.  The  strain  of  his  searching  eyes  grew 
intense. 

The  sharp  business  man  opposite  noted  this 
yearning  anxiety.  A  vague  importance  he  could 
not  yet  fathom  filled  the  atmosphere  of  the  room. 
Thomas  van  Crook  walked  away  to  the  window. 
His  commercial  instincts  were  afield :  he  had 
forgotten  about  cabs  and  trains. 

"  Tuesday.  Why  Tuesday  ?  "  He  turned, 
and  said  aloud  :  "  You  wish  to  wait  till  Tuesday. 
Why?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  And  I  cannot  comply  with  your  request." 

"My  God!" 

"  Really,  Mr.  Loder,  my  clerks  will  hear  you. 
You  should  abandon  this  bad  habit  of  swearing." 

"  I  tell  you,  the  delay  can  do  you  no  harm. 
To  me  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

"That  you  ask  for  delay  in  this  mysterious 


THE  CONTRACT  157 

manner  is  proof  sufficient  that  the  advantage 
would  be  on  your  side.  Ours  is  a  speculative 
trade,  Loder,  as  you  know.  You  ask  me  to 
behave  like  an  idiot.  You  would  be  the  first  to 
laugh  at  me  if  I  were  so  crazy  as  to  say  yes." 

"Have  you  sold?"  answered  Loder,  abruptly. 
"For  Monday?" 

"  What  ?  "  replied  Crook,  to  gain  time. 

"  I  ask  you,  have  you  sold  ?  I  don't  believe 
you  have,  for  I  feel  sure  you  are  holding  on.  If 
you  have  already  sold  at  present  prices,  I  ask 
nothing  more.     I  am  lost." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  But  it  isn't  likely  ! "  continued  the  desperate 
man  passionately.  "Our  contract  is  only  two 
days  old,  and  the  enormous  rise  came  yesterday 
and  continued  this  morning.  It  isn't  likely  that 
you  should  have  sold  for  delivery  on  Monday  ! " 

"  All  this  is  folly !  "  exclaimed  Thomas. 

"  If  you  haven't — and  I  don't  believe  you  have 
— you  can  save  me  without  loss  to  yourself." 
Loder  came  forward,  pressing  upon  his  adver- 
sary. "  Swear  to  me  by  the  blessed  Madonna  that 
you  have  sold,  and  must  deliver  on  Monday ! 
Swear,  and  I  will  go ! " 

The  blessed  Madonna  was  to  Thomas  not  an 
object  of  indifference,  but  of  positive  disapproval. 
He  was  rather  shocked  to  find  himself  locked  up 
thus  in  controversy  with  a  Romanist. 

"  Swear,  and  I  will  go  ! " 

"  I  never  swear,"  replied  Thomas.  "  You 
have  no  right,  sir,  to  put  these  insolent — yes, 


158  THE   CONTRACT 

insolent — questions  !  My  business  concerns  me 
alone,  sir ! " 

"  You  have  not  sold  ;  I  know  it.  At  least,  not 
for  Monday.  Then  you  will  let  me  deliver  on 
Tuesday." 

"  I  will  not."  The  words  fell  like  a  pistol  shot. 

"  I  tell  you,  if  I  am  obliged  to  buy  on  Monday 
at  seven  and  a  quarter,  I  am  hopelessly  ruined. 
The  transaction  has  been  an  enormous,  a 
desperate  speculation ;  I  admit  that.  It  has 
failed.  I  have  been  carried  off  my  feet  by  this 
corner ;  the  whole  market  has  been  mad,  as  you 
know,  for  a  week.     I  can  deliver  on  Tuesday." 

"  Why  ?  Why  ?  "  stammered  the  other,  faint 
with  curiosity. 

"You  have  children.  I  have  not  come  here 
on  my  own  account.  At  least,  not  mainly.  I 
have  a  wife,  a  daughter  who  has  been  an  invalid 
for  years.  You  are  turning  them  out  into  the 
streets,  flinging  my  sick  child  from  her  couch  into 
the  gutter.     I  plead  for  her.     I — I  plead  for  her." 

He  could  say  no  more,  stopping  suddenly. 

"Why  on  Tuesday?"  reiterated  Crook.  It 
was  indeed  a  mad  week  in  the  annals  of  the 
market,  unforgettable,  often  quoted  and  dis- 
cussed to  this  day.  The  whole  world  had  gone 
wild  over  a  corner  in  Chicago ;  fabulous  quantities, 
purely  speculative,  were  sold  every  hour,  not  at 
long  dates  as  usual,  but  for  immediate,  entirely 
imaginary,  delivery,  every  man  being  eager  to 
have  fresh  quantities,  however  theoretic,  to  re- 
sell.    A  fortune  came  and  went  with  an  hour's 


THE   CONTRACT  159 

delay.  Ten  times  the  possible  produce  of  the  year 
rose  and  fell  in  mid-air.  If  Crook  sold  to-day  he 
made  nearly  five  thousand  pounds,  but  he  had 
not  the  slightest  intention  of  selling,  convinced 
that  quotations  on  Monday  would  indicate  a 
further  considerable  rise. 

"  Sell  to-day  for  delivery  on  Tuesday.  That 
saves  me  and  insures  you." 

"You  know  very  well  I  can't  in  the  present 
insane  state  of  affairs.  No  man  will  give  me 
more  than  twenty-four  hours." 

"Sell  on  Monday,  then — on  Monday!  " 

The  look  of  suspicion  deepened  in  the  other's 
eye. 

"Tell  me  what  you  know,  or  think  you  know. 
Say  what  you  mean.  At  once.  Or  bring  me 
your  receipt  on  Monday  morning." 

Then  Loder  grew  suddenly  desperate. 

"  There ! "  he  said,  and  flung  down  a  paper  he 
had  held  hidden  until  now.  Van  Crook  pounced 
upon  it.     It  was  a  telegram  in  cipher. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  Van  Crook  baffled,  infuriated. 

"  Ah,  yes — true."     Loder  wiped  his  forehead. 

"That  is  a  telegram    from  ."      His    voice 

dropped,  for  he  mentioned  one  of  the  greatest 
names  over  yonder.  Van  Crook's  face  assumed 
an  expression  of  awe.  Then  of  doubt.  "  What  ? 
To  you?" 

"  He  bids  me  do  a  stroke  of  business  for  him, 
because  I  am  so  unnoticeable  and  unimportant," 
said  Loder  bitterly.  "  Incidentally  he  proves  to 
me  the  certainty  of  a  great  fall  on  Tuesday." 


160  THE   CONTRACT 

"And  you  show  them  to  me?  You  have 
strange  ideas  of  honour." 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  of  honour — you ! " 

"And  why  not,  pray ?  "  Van  Crook  lifted  his 
pink  chin  high  over  his  tall  white  collar. 

"  Oh,  leave  me  alone/'  replied  the  pale  man, 
wearily.  u  I  must  save  the  roof  over  my  wife 
and  child.  If  I  buy  on  Monday  to  meet  your 
claim,  I  am  hopelessly  lost." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  sell  twice  the  amount 
on  Monday  and  make  a  fortune  ?  " 

"I  can't,  as  you  know  very  well,  since  men 
have  begun  demanding  receipts.  I  haven't  got 
anything  to  sell." 

Van  Crook  gave  a  long,  low  whistle.  Was  it 
possible  that  this  man  posed  as  a  speculator  and 
tied  himself  down  to  bona-fide  receipts  ? 

"I  have  receipts,"  he  said  drily.  "Surely 
folks  make  laws,  and  wise  men  elude  them." 

"The  more  reason  then  to  have — mercy  on 
me.  Sell  what  you  can  on  Monday,  but  let  me 
off.  I  am  asking  you  for  an  enormous  boon ;  I 
know  it.  But  it  doesn't  mean  loss  to  you. 
Only  less  gain." 

"  Less  gain  is  loss  to  a  merchant." 

"  Well,  then,  for  mercy's  sake !    For  God's  ! " 

But  Van  Crook  had  been  making  rapid  com- 
putations. The  long-expected  crash,  the  final 
reckoning  was  coming.  In  a  day  or  two  actual 
delivery — genuine  receipts,  that  is  to  say— would 
be  required.  Loder's  fifty  thousand  —  an  im- 
mense   amount— would    be    a    most    important 


THE   CONTRACT  161 

factor.  He  believed  in  the  poor  fellow's  sincerity, 
but,  after  all,  the  telegram  was  in  cipher ;  specula- 
tion remained  speculation,  even  the  great  man 
over  the  sea  might  be  mistaken — there  are  many 
slips  between  the  cup  and  the  lip.  He  had 
resolved  to  close  that  very  night  with  a  friend's 
offer.  The  friend  lived  at  a  summer  place  not  a 
mile  from  his  own  cottage.  He  would  drive  over 
after  dinner. 

"  I  have  sold,"  he  said  calmly. 

"  You  lie  !  "  screamed  Loder. 

Thomas  van  Crook  had  rung  the  bell. 

"You  have  not  the  slightest  idea  what  you 
are  saying,"  he  said,  pompously.  *  I  must  now 
be  going.  Sit  down  and  rest  a  bit.  My  clerk 
can  get  you  a  glass  of  water.    Good-day." 

He  walked  out  of  the  inner  room  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

"  The  gentleman  in  there  has  asked  for  some 
water,"  he  remarked  to  the  clerk.  Then,  in 
passing  through  the  office,  he  paused  and  spoke 
with  gentle  reproof:  "It  is  the  16th  to-day,  not 
the  15th,"  he  said.  "I  have  complained  to  you 
before  on  the  subject." 

So  speaking,  he  tore  a  leaflet  off  the  clerk's 
calendar.  It  was  a  religious  one  with  texts  for 
every  day  in  the  year.  A  yearly  Christmas 
present  from  Mrs.  Van  Crook  to  the  office. 

"'The  blessing  of  the  Lord  maketh  rich,'" 
said  Thomas,  "  '  and  He  addeth  no  sorrow  there- 
unto.'   Ah,  true,  very  true." 

"  Please,  sir,  it  struck  me  as  so  beautiful,  I 

M 


162  THE   CONTRACT 

kept  it  on  an  extra  day,"  said  the  youth,  who 
earned  four  hundred  dollars  per  annum. 

Thomas  looked  at  him  keenly,  and  the  young 
man  quailed. 

"  Never  tell  untruths,"  said  Thomas  severely. 
Then  he  went  out  to  the  cab,  but  of  course  he 
had  missed  his  train.  There  was  one  half  an 
hour  later.  He  sighed.  "  But  it  was  kind  to 
listen  to  the  poor,  stupid  wretch,"  he  thought, 
and  felt  he  had  done,  as  usual,  right. 

Unconsciously  he  had  retained  the  little  leaflet 
in  his  hand,  and,  in  driving  along  the  familiar 
streets,  he  unrolled  it,  with  mechanical  move- 
ment, and  smoothed  it  out.  As  he  gazed  down 
upon  the  thick  black  letters,  he  reflected  how 
true  they  came  in  his  own  existence.  His  life 
had  been  singularly  prosperous ;  all  things  ran 
smoothly  with  his  comely,  kindly  wife,  and 
healthy  children,  his  well-ordered  household  and 
comfortable  home.  There  had  been  one  shadow 
during  several  years,  an  unfulfilled  desire ;  they 
had  prayed  about  it,  and  the  answer  had  come ; 
a  son  had  been  born  to  them.  He  threw  out  his 
chest  and  gazed  upon  the  people  walking  on  the 
pavement.  Somebody,  an  unknown  nobody, 
saluted  with  a  humble  sinking  of  hat  and  head. 
Thomas  waved  a  benignant  hand. 

In  the  train  he  found  an  habitual  acquaintance, 
a  man  in  another  line  of  business  than  himself, 
but  a  member  of  the  same  charitable  committee. 
There  then  was  an  agreeable  community  of  con- 
versation not  too  personal.      The  two    began 


THE   CONTRACT  168 

speaking  oi  a  painful  case  which  had  applied  for 
relief.  Another  man  whom  Thomas  knew  got  in 
at  an  intermediate  station,  to  his  sub-acid  annoy- 
ance ;  for  this  man  was  a  Revivalist,  one  of  those 
people  who  have  been  converted  and  ask  if  you 
have  been  saved.  And  this  form  of  religion  was 
peculiarly  objectionable  to  Thomas. 

"A  man  shouldn't  attempt  business  unless  he 
has  business  instincts,"  said  the  fellow  committee 
member. 

"  I  entirely  agree  with  you,"  replied  Thomas, 
his  thoughts  dwelling  on  Loder  ;  "  otherwise,  of 
course,  he  fails,  and  then  he  comes  down  on  the 
community." 

"  Now,  this  man,"  said  his  companion,  "  was 
a  fool." 

"  All  men  are  who  fail,"  replied  Thomas. 

The  Revivalist  turned  down  his  newspaper. 

11  Surely — surely  not,"  he  said. 

"Not  only  fools,  but  evil-doers,"  persisted 
Thomas  pugnaciously.  "  Ill-success  is  the  result 
of  wrong-doing." 

"  You  would  not  find  that  easy  to  prove,"  said 
the  pious  man  softly. 

For  all  answer,  Thomas  pushed  a  fat  finger 
into  a  capacious  waistcoat  pocket,  pulled  out  a 
crumpled  piece  of  paper,  and  held  it  under  the 
other's  nose.  He  was  delighted  at  this  op- 
portunity of  flooring  the  preacher. 

"  Behold  your  proof!  " 

His  antagonist  calmly  adjusted  a  pair  of  gold 
spectacles,  and  read  the  sacred  words.    Then  he 


164  THE   CONTRACT 

looked  at  the  florid  personage  opposite  to  him 
with  an  expression  of  very  real  pity  in  his  grave, 
grey  eyes. 

"  And  you  really  think  that  the  riches  of  the 
Lord  are  pounds,  shillings  and  pence?"  he  said. 
u  Poor  man !  "  Then  he  resumed  his  newspaper, 
hiding  behind  it. 

Thomas  Van  Crook  got  out  at  his  station, 
feeling  ruffled  and  perplexed.  He  walked  at  a 
quick  pace,  in  the  beautiful  summer  sunshine, 
along  a  road  bordered  by  flower  gardens,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  beeches.  He  was  vexed  at 
being  later  than  usual.  Tommy  would  have 
expected  him  half  an  hour  ago,  and  Tommy 
did  not  like  being  put  out.  The  discussion  in 
the  train  had  been  objectionable;  what  absurd 
ideas  came  to  these  people  who  broke  away 
from  "The  Word"  and  went  in  for  emotional 
religion !  And  the  preceding  scene  in  the  office 
had  been  worse.  The  man  Loder  had  made 
him  quite  uncomfortable  with  that  outrageous 
appeal  about  "an  invalid  daughter"  and  "the 
gutter."  Under  such  circumstances  business 
became  impossible.  That  must  be  patent  to 
every  human  being  with  a  head  on  his  shoulders. 
Fancy  allowing  all  your  contracts  to  turn  on 
personal  considerations,  selling  cheap  to  a  poor 
man  and  dear  to  a  richer.  Idiotic !  There  is  no 
doubt  it  would  be.  He  would  drive  over  to  his 
colleague's  that  evening,  and  sell  out  at  seven 
and  a  quarter. 

The  first   thing  that    struck   him   when  he 


THE   CONTRACT  165 

opened  his  own  gate  was  that  no  little  feet 
ran  pattering  out  to  greet  him.  And  the  next 
thing  was  that  his  wife  came  into  the  verandah 
hurriedly  with  tear-stains  on  her  face. 

She  drew  him  into  the  sitting-room.  "  What 
is  it  ?  "  A  new  alarm  was  upon  him,  the  contact 
with  an  unknown  emotion  suddenly  at  the 
throat. 

"Never  mind,  dear;  it  will  be  all  right. 
Only  " — her  voice  broke — "  Tommy  has  had  some 
sort  of  seizure.  He  is  in  convulsions.  The 
doctor  is  with  him.  I  daresay  it  won't  be  so 
very  bad." 

The  father  "sprang  away  from  her  with  a  cry. 
In  one  rush  he  reached  the  bedside.  A  doctor 
was  busy  applying  useless  remedies.  The  child 
lay  gasping  and  twitching,  oppressed  beyond 
endurance,  blue  in  the  face,  a  terrible  sight. 

"  Good  God ! "  said  the  father  who  deemed 
the  words  an  oath.  Then  he  turned  on  the 
doctor,  and  angrily  bade  him  give  relief. 

"I  am  doing  what  I  can,"  said  the  man  of 
medicine  briefly. 

"But  it  isn't  enough." 

"  It  is  not.     Nature  must  help  herself." 

"  Nature  ?    Nature  ?    Will  she  do  it  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  saying.  You  must  not  cry  out 
like  this.  Although  the  child  is  not  visibly  aware 
of  your  presence,  your  agitation  is  communicat- 
ing itself  to  him.  I  must  beg  of  you  to  leave 
this  room."  The  grumpy  old  doctor  did  not  like 
Van  Crook,  who  had  quarrelled  with  him  about 


166  THE  CONTRACT 

a  bill  for  parish  relief.  Van  Crook  was  a  hard- 
working churchwarden,  and  did  his  best  for  the 
parish  and  the  poor. 

"  But  I  can  do  something.  Something  more 
can  be  done.    Just  look  how  the  child  struggles." 

"  I  am  doing  what  little  there  is  to  be  done. 
You  can  do  nothing.  Well,  yes— you  are  a 
religious  man,  are  you  not?    You  can  pray." 

"Is  there  danger?"  The  man's  voice  rose 
sick  with  apprehension. 

"  Pray  all  you  can,"  replied  the  doctor. 

Van  Crook  fell  more  than  walked  into  the 
adjoining  room.  Behind  the  closed  door  he 
could  hear  the  gurgling  and  groaning  of  the 
child.  "  My  boy,  Thomas,"  he  said,  "  my  boy, 
Thomas,"  over  and  over  again.  At  first  he  could 
say  or  think  nothing  else.  As  he  stood  at  the 
window  wildly  looking  out,  he  drove  his  hands 
into  his  trousers  pockets,  and  there  he  struck 
against  the  crumpled  bit  of  paper  he  had  angrily 
thrust  out  of  sight  when  the  pious  man  returned 
it  to  him. 

He  knew  well  enough  what  the  little  lump 
was  his  knuckles  pressed  against.  The  letters 
arose  in  front  of  him  and  wrote  themselves  large 
in  the  sky. 

"  The  blessing  of  the  Lord  maketh  rich,  and 
He  addeth  no  sorrow  thereunto." 

The  Methodist's  remark  had  conveyed  no 
meaning  whatever  to  him.  Nor  did  he  now 
attach  any  significance  to  it.  But  in  his  practical 
mind  it    was    evident  that,    if  sorrow — a  new 


THE  CONTRACT  167 

experience — came   upon    him,    something    must 
have  gone  wrong  with  the  blessing  of  the  Lord. 
And  the  consciousness  of  the  Lord's  blessing, 
His  daily  approval,  was  as  necessary  to  him  as 
sunshine  to  wheat. 

He  had  not  believed  much  in  the  sick  daughter 
and  the  gutter,  but  now,  in  the  light  of  his  own 
child's  illness,  the  fact  stood  out  painfully  glaring. 
His  own  child  ill,  in  danger ;  none  of  the  children 
had  ever  been  ill  before. 

He  wanted  to  pray,  but  he  found  that  he 
couldn't.  The  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  can  only  pray  by 
speaking  their  petitions  out  loud.  Something 
had  become  between  him  and  his  prayers. 

His  wife  was  in  the  next  room  with  the  doctor 
and  the  child.     He  could  hear  her.     He  crept  to 
the  door,  but  the  doctor  thrust  him  back.   "  There 
is  no  change,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Not  a  little  better  ?  " 
"  No." 

He  stood  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  silent 
room.  And  suddenly  a  great  conception  was 
borne  in  upon  his  mind — the  possibility  of  a 
magnificent  compromise,  a  transaction  with  the 
Almighty  offering,  at  any  rate,  a  chance  of  success. 
It  was  a  vast  speculation,  and  that  tempted  him. 
Nay,  as  he  reflected  upon  it,  he  realised  that  he 
could  make  it  not  a  chance,  but  a  certainty.  From 
so  noble,  so  generous  an  action — unheard  of  in 
the  annals  of  commercialism — the  Lord  could 
not  withhold  His  blessing,  that  blessing  which 


168  THE   CONTRACT 

maketh  rich,  and  behold,  He  addeth  no  sorrow 
thereunto. 

A  life  for  a  life.  Loder's  invalid  daughter 
against  his  dying  boy. 

u  I  will  do  it,"  he  said  aloud.  "  Do  Thou  give 
me  my  child.  It  is  a  contract.  To  understand 
the  message.  I  accept  it.  Loder's  daughter 
shall  live.     Let  my  son  live  too." 

He  tottered  downstairs  to  the  telephone 
which  communicated  with  the  local  telegraph 
office.  And  he  sent  the  telegram  to  Loder. 
"  Consider  contract  annulled." 

He  slipped  upstairs  again  easy  in  mind. 
His  heart  was  aglow  with  the  munificence  of  the 
action  he  had  just  committed.  And  he  was 
certain  of  his  reward.  There  should  be  no 
sorrow  mixed  up  with  his  wisely-earned  bless- 
ings. His  share  of  the  divine  contract  he  had 
righteously  fulfilled. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  the  doctor  met  him. 
"  The  child  is  dead,"  said  the  doctor. 


MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS 

I 

IN  the  favoured  borough  of  Overstad,  well 
known  to  the  student  of  history,  among  the 
fat  meadows,  a  dozen  miles  beyond  Utrecht, 
there  dwell  many  that  are  very  good,  and  more 
that  are  believed  so.  Not  by  themselves— that 
were  a  commonplace — but  by  others  of  like 
thinking  with  themselves.  There  are  also  many 
whose  ways  are  evil,  but  these  belong  to  the 
other  religious  sects. 

It  is  by  no  means  so  easy  as  the  careless 
tourist  might  imagine  to  become  a  person  of 
importance  in  Overstad.  Certain  lengths — so  to 
put  it — are  required  of  the  candidate  for  social 
consideration :  length  of  purse,  length  of  pedi- 
gree (only  local  species  are  known  of  the  family 
tree)  and  also  length  of  face.  The  first  two 
qualifications  must  occur  in  conjunction :  the 
last  has  been  known  to  suffice  in  itself.  A  man 
has  achieved  greatness  in  Overstad  by  never 
being  seen  to  smile.  All  three  requirements 
found  moderate  recognition  in  the  impressive 
personality  of  Miss  Alida  Blom. 

It  cannot  be  denied,  that  Mejuffrouw  Alida 


170  MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS 

Blom  belonged  on  the  father's  side  to  the  Utrecht 
family  of  the  Bloms  who  were  cordially  hated, 
as  such,  by  their  Overstad  namesakes  of  slightly 
humbler  origin.  But  her  father  had  married  (to 
the  rage  of  his  relations)  an  Overstad  Blom 
"with  a  penny  in  the  bank,"  as  he  always 
phrased  it,  and  from  the  day  of  his  marriage  and 
removal  to  Overstad  his  countenance  had  assumed 
such  an  air  of  unfathomable  solemnity,  that  the 
townspeople  would  have  respected  the  daughter 
for  that  memory  alone.  In  daily  life  the  worthy 
man  had  been  a  manufacturer  of  cheap  cigars : 
he  had  left  his  only  child  a  fortune  amounting  to 
exactly  thirteen  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

Mejuffrouw  Alida  lived  as  an  uncompromising 
spinster  into  stately  middle  age.  She  said  that 
marriage  was  a  reproach.  St.  Paul  had  intended 
it  to  be  so,  and  such  it  was.  From  time  to  time 
some  enterprising  suitor  made  advances :  to  her 
honour  be  it  admitted  that  she  always  averted 
his  discomfiture,  if  she  could  do  so.  It  afforded 
her  no  satisfaction,  she  averred,  to  see  the  poor 
male  creatures  shrivel  up  and  slink  away. 

She  inhabited  a  dull,  white  house — as  white 
as  it  was  dull—with  green  shutters,  on  a  dead, 
grass-eaten  square,  which  bore  grimly  the  name 
of  the  Old  Churchyard.  In  front  of  Number 
Nineteen  the  bit  of  pavement  was  kept  properly 
weeded.  Everything  was  kept  in  proper  con- 
dition at  Number  Nineteen.  Even  the  man  who 
came  and  did  odd  jobs  (not  "odd:"  there  was 
never    any    variety)    was    a    white-haired    old 


MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS  171 

widower,    who    had    promised    not    to    marry 
again. 

Once  only  there  had  been  an  actual  flutter  in 
this  rectilinear  household — it  happened  when  the 
old  man  had  fallen  ill  and  sent  a  chubby,  curly, 
young  nephew  to  fill  his  place.  Miss  Alida,  re- 
tiring from  her  first  interview  with  the  newcomer, 
had  remarked  to  Elizabeth,  the  cook,  that  the  lad 
was  of  a  pleasing  exterior — a  remark,  frequently 
revived,  amid  head-shakings,  by  the  two  maids, 
who  had  both  spent  more  than  twenty-five  years 
in  the  house.  In  the  second  interview  Miss 
Alida  had  dismissed  the  youth  from  her  premises 
with  contumely,  for  making  love,  over  the  palings, 
to  the  nurse-girl  next  door. 

Thirteen  hundred  a  year  is  a  fortune  in  Miss 
Alida's  small  Overstad  circle.  In  itself  it  would 
entitle  its  owner  to  respect :  it  becomes  a  source 
of  persistent  adulation,  when  much  of  it  is  found 
to  be  available  for  charity.  Miss  Alida's  own 
requirements  were  simple  and  solid :  she  was 
eager  to  share  her  bread  and  butter  with  the 
poor. 

"A  most  praiseworthy  attitude  of  mind,"  said 
the  minister  of  the  Free  Reformed  Church,  to 
which  Miss  Alida  belonged.  For,  alas,  she  was 
a  dissenter,  even  from  the  dissenters.  The 
arrangement  was  her  father's — he  having  always 
shaken  his  head  whenever  anybody  expressed  a 
religious  opinion  of  any  kind. 

"  But  who,  pray,  is  Miss  Alida  Blom  ?  "  ques- 
tioned   the    minister's    brother,    a    missionary, 


172  MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS 

recently  returned  from  the  West  Indies,  and 
appointed  to  the  management  of  a  mission- 
school  at  home. 

"The  most  estimable  member  of  my  com- 
munity/' replied  the  minister,  "  and  the  wealthi- 
est. How  beautiful,"  he  added,  "  to  find  the  two 
thus  combined!"  The  minister  was  lanky, 
cadaverous,  attired  in  an  ever-dusty  black  coat. 
He  had  eleven  children :  his  locks,  his  speech 
and  his  skin  were  oleaginous :  his  nails  were 
blacker  than  his  coat.  He  was  a  false  shepherd  : 
of  that  uncommon  species  you  could  not  have 
found  an  unpleasanter  specimen  in  all  the  country 
round. 

Unless  it  might  have  been  his  brother,  freshly 
imported,  a  dark  presence,  discoloured  by  tropi- 
cal suns,  with  a  look  from  which  dogs  shrank 
away. 

"Unmarried,  I  think  I  understand?"  con- 
tinued the  missionary.  "  Mejuffrouw "  may 
apply  to  spinster,  widow  or  wife. 

"Unmarried,  I  am  thankful  to  say,"  replied 
Matthew,  the  minister.  "  For  the  married  women 
centre  their  affections  on  their  households,  the 
unmarried " 

"On  their  minister,"  sneered  Timothy,  the 
missionary,  himself  a  bachelor. 

The  elder  brother  smiled.  "  For  shame !  On 
their  church.  Miss  Alida  is  worth  several  thou- 
sand florins  a  year  to  me  in  my  care  for  the 
needs  of  my — poor." 

"  Lucky  man— poor,  I  mean,"  said  Timothy. 


MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS  173 

"Some  few  droppings  fall  on  me.  I  do  not 
deny  that.  When  Susan  had  the  measles  last 
September,  and  Timothy,  your  godson, 
caught " 

"  I  remember,"  replied  the  missionary  hastily. 
"  How  old  is  your  Miss  Alida?" 

u  Miss  Alida  completed  her  forty-seventh  year 
on  the  thirteenth  of  November  last.  But  her 
health  is  excellent,  and  she  is  also  remarkably 
well — ahem ! — preserved." 

"A  fine  woman?"  The  questioner's  voice 
betrayed  interest.  The  older  man  cast  a  long, 
leering  glance  at  him. 

"No.  Veracity  compels  me  to  confess  that 
she  is  unusually  plain." 

"Well,  one  can't  have  everything,"  said 
Timothy. 

He  took  a  few  puffs  at  his  long  Gouda  pipe 
before  he  added :  "  By  your  own  account  she  is 
generous,  kind-hearted." 

"When  not  in  her  tantrums,"  replied  the 
wary  Matthew.  "  Her  generosity  is  largely  a 
matter  of  whim." 

Timothy's  eyes  wandered  round  his  brother's 
shabby  box  of  a  study.  The  stamping  and  howl- 
ing of  children  could  be  heard  in  a  continual 
storm  round  the  poor  little  house.  "  I  should 
like,"  said  Timothy,  "  to  meet  this  Miss  Alida." 

"I  fear  that  would  be  difficult  to  manage," 
retorted  Matthew.  In  the  momentary  silence 
that  followed  a  declaration  of  war  passed  between 
the  brothers. 


174  MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  shall  call  on  her  and 
ask  for  a  subscription." 

"She  don't  care  for  missions.  She  don't 
believe  in  'em.  I  have  frequently  laboured  in 
vain  to  procure  a  donation  for  you,  Timothy." 

"  You  mean/'  said  Timothy,  smiling  his  most 
unpleasant  smile,  "that  you  look  upon  Miss 
Alida  as  your  especial  preserve?" 

"The  expression  is  disgusting.  But,  if  you 
choose  to  put  it  so,  well,  yes." 

"  My  dear  Matthew,  there  is  always  a  certain 
charm  in  poaching." 

"A  man's  enemies,"  said  the  minister,  folding 
his  hands,  "shall  be  those  of  his  own  house." 
Probably  he  would  have  added  even  more  pun- 
gent quotations,  for  the  red  spots  were  coming 
out  upon  his  bilious  complexion,  but  all  further 
discussion  was  prevented  by  loud  knockings  and 
parleyings  at  the  door.  In  another  moment  Miss 
Alida,  greatly  flurried,  stood  screaming  at  the 
obsequious  pastor. 

"  Minister,  come  with  me  at  once ! "  cried  Miss 
Alida.  "  Who's  this  ?  Never  mind.  Come  along 
with  me  at  once  ! "  She  caught  him  by  the  arm 
and  propelled  him  along  the  passage.  Hatless, 
in  his  filthy  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  vainly 
expostulating,  he  found  himself  seated  in  a  cab, 
driving  furiously  along  the  most  frequented 
street  of  Overstad — worst  of  all,  opposite  sat  his 
brother,  serene,  in  glossy  black. 

"Present  me,  my  dear  Matthew,"  said 
Timothy. 


MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS  175 

"  It  seems  to  me  it  was  /  Miss  Alida  asked  to 
accompany  her,"  came  the  savage  reply. 

Timothy  took  off  his  shiny  tall  hat  and  gently 
stroked  it.  "  Should  the  services  of  a  clergyman 
be  suddenly  called  for,  I  felt  that  my  cos- 
tume  "     He  sank  his  emotionless  eyes  down 

the  flabby  dilapidation  beside  him,  in  tattered 
purple  hangings,  torn  slippers,  worse  socks. 

11  Are  you  a  parson  also  ?  Oh,  ay,  Timothy, 
I  suppose?  So  much  the  better,"  said  Miss 
Alida.  Already  the  cab  dashed  round  a  corner 
of  the  Churchyard.  Miss  Alida  hurried  the  two 
clerics  through  her  own  front-door  and  straight 
down  into  her  kitchen. 

'■  Such  doings  in  a  Christian  woman's  house  ?  " 
gasped  Miss  Alida. 

In  the  middle  of  the  kitchen,  by  the  table,  sat 
the  cook.  On  the  table  lay,  prominently  placed, 
the  cook's  arm,  and  that  arm  had  been,  recently, 
badly  burnt.  Over  the  injured  member  leant  a 
gaunt  figure  in  a  white  mob  cap,  which  figure 
and  cap  belonged  to  an  itinerant  saleswoman, 
from  whom  Miss  Alida  occasionally  bought 
fruit. 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh ! "  groaned  the  cook. 

The  old  woman,  with  a  countenance  of  pre- 
ternatural solemnity,  entirely  oblivious  of  any 
change  in  her  surroundings,  continued  her  move- 
ments and  mutterings. 

"Hocus  pocus!  Sanctus  Maria! — ter-ter- 
ter!  '  she  murmured,  and  flung  three  great 
sweeps  of  the  cross  high  in  air,  above  the  cook 


176  MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS 

and  the  table  and,  almost,  over  Miss  Alida.     The 
latter  leaped  back. 

"  Spirit    evil — spirit    devil — spirit    holy " 

declaimed  the  old  woman. 

"Peace!"  shrieked  Miss  Alida.  "Stop  her, 
parson !  Cook,  if  you  don't  take  that  arm  away, 
I  give  you  notice  on  the  spot.  Yes,  though  you 
have  been  twenty  years  in  my  family,  and  I 
never  thought " 

"  Twenty-five  come  next  February  :  the  pain's 
going  down,"  said  the  cook. 

"Really,  really,  this  is  very  reprehensible," 
began  Matthew,  who  was  hunting  for  one  of  his 
slippers  that  had  come  off  in  the  hurried  descent. 

"  Prehensible  ?  "  cried  Alida.  "  Of  the  devil ! 
This  woman,  I  now  understand  too  late,  is  a 
Papist,  a  horrible,  iniquitous  Papist,  of  whom  / 
have  bought  gooseberries !  Heaven  forgive  me 
for  buying  gooseberries  of  a  Papist.  And  such 
bad  ones  too !  I  might  have  guessed.  By  their 
fruit  ye  shall  know  them,  as  the  blessed  Bible 
says." 

"My  gooseberries- "  began  the  old  woman, 

turning  hastily, — but  she  checked    herself  and 
reverted  to  her  exorcisms. 

"  Out  of  my  house  you  go  this  minute ! " 
shouted  the  indignant  spinster,  hoarse  with  pas- 
sion, "  and  never  dare  to  enter  it  again ! " 

"  Out  of  my  house  you  go  this  minute ! "  re- 
peated Matthew,  trying  to  look  under  the 
dresser,  "  and  never  dare  to  enter  it  again ! " 

The  old  woman  had  taken  up  a  basin  of  water 


MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS  177 

and    began    plashing    the    contents    over    the 
wounded  limb.     The  patient  screamed. 

a  Hocus  pocus — Ter  est  sanctus " 

Timothy  stepped  quietly  forward,  gripped 
the  old  woman  by  the  shoulders  and  hoisted 
her,  with  merciless  persistence,  to  the  door. 

"Out  you  go,  swindler!"  cried  Miss  Alida. 
"  Out,  you  witch ! " 

On  the  threshold,  however,  the  old  woman 
wrenched  herself  round  and,  before  disappearing : 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Holy  Virgin  thou  blas- 
phemest,"  she  said,  solemnly  cranking  one 
crooked  finger  forwards,  "the  black  death  shall 
eat  thy  vitals!  Tris!  Anathema.  Ter.  Ter. 
Ter."  Rather  suddenly  she  disappeared  around 
the  corner,  by  an  extra-forcible  jerk  of  Timothy's. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!  The  pain  was  ever  so  much 
better!"  wailed  the  cook.  "She  kills  and  she 
cures  as  she  pleases.  She  says  so  herself,  and 
it's  true.  '  I  cures  and  I  kills,  whom  I  wills,'  she 
says." 

"  Elizabeth,  you  are  a  heathen,"  replied  Miss 
Alida,  rather  pale.  "  Worse  than  a  heathen.  I 
will  send  you  down  some  of  my  linseed  lini- 
ment, by  Suzan.     It  is  excellent  for  burns." 

"Not  as  good   as  Vrouw   Dupper,"    boldly 
answered  the  cook. 
'"Folly!" 

"You  wait  till  you're  burnt,"  said  the  cook. 

"  Dear,  dear,  how  she  did  curse  missus !  It 
gave  me  quite  a  turn,"  added  Suzan. 

"  Peace ! "  said  Alida,  her  nose  high  in  air. 

N 


178  MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS 

II 

Next  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  Miss  Alida's 
grey-headed  servitor  again  summoned  the  minister 
to  his  mistress's  side. 

"  She's  that  bad  !  "  said  the  old  factotum,  at  the 
street-door. 

"  How  bad  ! "  cried  the  minister's  dishevelled 
wife  from  the  top  of  the  staircase. 

"  As  bad  as  can  be,"  replied  Peter. 

A  thrill  of  expectancy  ran  through  the  little 
house. 

"  Dear,  dear  me ! "  exclaimed  Matthew,  running 
about  in  a  not  unusual  flutter.  "  Supposing  that 
something  were  to  happen  !   I  hope  not,  Sophia !  " 

"  I  hope  not,"echoed  the  weary  Sophia,  turning 
to  look  for  her  latest  baby  but  one. 

"The  dealings  of  Providence  are  inscrutable," 
declared  Matthew,  from  habit.  "  And  I'm  not  at 
all  sure  we're  in  her  will,"  he  added,  as  he  hurried 
downstairs. 

Nevertheless  he  was  very  much  annoyed  to 
find,  on  arriving,  Timothy  already  tranquilly 
installed  in  Miss  Alida's  red-velvet  parlour. 

"  Did  she  send  for  you  too  ?  "  asked  Timothy, 
with  his  thin  smile.  "The  doctor  is  with  the 
dear  patient." 

"  You  are  sitting  in  Miss  Alida's  own  chair," 
retorted  the  minister  snappishly.  "  Nobody  ever 
sits  in  it  but  she." 

"  Indeed  ?  Well,  at  any  rate,  she  can't  sit  in 
it  now,"  answered  Timothy. 


MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS  179 

An  angry  silence  ensued.  "  Perhaps,"  added 
Timothy  sweetly,  "  she  may  never  sit  in  it  again." 

Matthew  bounded.  "Good  gracious,  I  hope 
she  won't  die  !  "  he  cried.  "  I  couldn't  afford  to 
lose  her.    The  children " 

"  You  idiot,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  had 
her  all  this  time,  and  haven't  even  got  into  her 
will?" 

Matthew  scowled  at  his  brother.  "  You  try," 
he  said. 

"  You  have  tried  then  ?  " 

"  Lord !  Timothy,  if  I'm  an  idiot,  what  are 
you?" 

"  Not  an  idiot,  as  you  shall  see.  Here  comes 
the  doctor." 

A  young  man,  with  a  healthy,  jolly  face,  redo- 
lent of  health,  walked,  grinning,  into  the  room. 

"  Well  ?  "  demanded  both  brothers,  starting  up. 

The  doctor  looked  from  one  anxious  inquirer 
to  the  other.  He  read  their  faces  like  an  open 
book,  and  his  own  grew  immoderately  long. 

"  Very  bad,"  he  croaked. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  she's  dying  ?"  squealed 
Timothy. 

The  young  man  steadied  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"  In  cases  like  hers,"  he  said,  "  all  prophecy  is 
vain.  She  may  live  for  twenty  years  longer.  She 
may  die  to-night." 

"What,  pray,  is  her  disease?"  queried 
Timothy's  grave  voice. 

The  doctor  looked  this  strange  speaker  more 


180  MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS 

carefully  in  the  eyes.  "  That"  he  answered 
slowly,  "  a  physician  cannot  say.  Now,  mind 
you  cheer  her  up,  or  you'll  kill  her  at  once." 
He  lifted  his  hat  off  a  chair  and  departed. 
To  his  wife  he  confided  a  different  account. 
"  Her  disease  was  a  surfeit  of  gooseberries,"  he 
said.  "  Over-eating  won't  hurt  her  :  she's  hard  as 
nails.  I  couldn't  resist  the  pleasure  of  giving 
that  old  blood-sucker  a  fright." 

Alarmed,  indeed, — greatly  disconcerted — the 
parson  sat  by  Miss  Alida's  bedside.  The 
missionary  also  was  established  there,  apparently 
cool.  The  latter's  gaze  seemed  unconsciously 
fascinated  by  the  scarlet  bow  on  the  invalid's 
peaked  cap. 

"  The  curse  is  coming  true ! "  said  Alida  in 
sepulchral  tones.  "  The  hand  of  death  is  heavy 
upon  me.  It  is  my  punishment  for  having  dealings 
with  the  woman  that  was  drunk " 

"  I  didn't  notice  that,"  murmured  Matthew 
reassuringly. 

"With  the  blood  of  the  saints,"  continued 
Alida,  frowning.  "It  griped  where  she  said  it 
would.    And  I'm  going  to  die." 

"  No,  no,"  sobbed  Matthew. 

"  So  I've  sent  for  you  two  holy  men  to  consult 
about  my  will." 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  both  brothers,  sitting  up  with 
alacrity.   "  It  isn't  made  already?"  added  Matthew. 

She  eyed  him  sharply.  "  No.  Why  should 
it  be?" 

"I'm   sure  I  don't  know.      Oh  yes:    in  the 


MISTER   BROTHER   JONAS  181 

hour  of  death  we  are  in  life,  you  know.     I  mean, 
in  the  hour  of " 

"  Never  mind  what  you  mean,"  interrupted  the 
spinster  nervously.  "  I  haven't  got  any  relations 
I  care  about.  If  I  make  a  good  will,  I  daresay 
I  shall  get  better.  Yes,  that  is  quite  my  idea. 
Now,  whom  should  I  leave  all  my  money  to  ?  " 

"  A  difficult  question  !  "  said  Matthew,  rolling 
up  his  eyes. 

"Or,  rather,  I  should  say  'what?'  for  of 
course  I  shall  leave  it  to  a  charity." 

"An  admirable  destination!"  said  Timothy, 
rolling  up  his,  which  were  much  more  expressive 
than  his  brother's. 

Miss  Alida  gave  a  sudden  howl.  "  Cure  me 
one  of  you,"  she  said,  "  the  piousest,  cure  me!" 

Both  gentlemen  in  black — the  glossy  and  the 
rusty — stared,  out  of  countenance. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  cried  Miss  Alida, 
with  vehemence,  "  that  a  poor  Papist  creature — 
and  she  a  twopenny  halfpenny  beggar  who  sells 
fruit — can  let  the  devil  loose  inside  a  good 
Christian  gentlewoman  and  two  parsons  in  orders 
can't  work  him  out  again  ?  Exercise  me,  or 
whatever  you  call  it,  exercise  me  at  once  !  " 

"  'Tis  the  gooseberries,"  said  Matthew.  "  Calm 
yourself,  dear  sister!  When  these  have  exhausted 
their  violence " 

Miss  Alida's  face  grew  purple.  "  You  accuse 
me,"  she  cried,  "  of  over-eating !  Me,  the  most 
temperate  of  women!  Now,  if  /  were  a 
parson " 


182  MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS 

"  I  will  cure  you !  "  said  Timothy.  He  had 
risen.  He  laid  a  solemn  hand  on  Miss  Alida's  cap. 
He  winked  at  Matthew,  and  Matthew  looked  so 
furious,  that  the  younger  brother  burst  into  a 
guffaw. 

"What's  that?"  exclaimed  Alida,  dodging 
under  the  hand. 

"My  troublesome  bronchitis,"  coughed 
Timothy.     "Chronic.     Caught  in  the  vineyard." 

"Intemperance?" 

"No,  no.  Fie,  dear  sister.  Silence.  I  will  cure 
you.     This  evening,  at  sunset,  you  will  be  well." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"I  know.  Thou  knowest.  He  knows." 
Timothy  pointed  majestically  to  Matthew. 

"We  know.  You  know.  They  know,"  re- 
joined the  latter  scornfully. 

"  I'll  make  my  will  to-morrow,"  exclaimed 
Alida,  "  but  I  can't  bequeath  my  property  to 
missions,  because  I  don't  believe  in  them." 

"  Many  of  the  societies  are  indeed  not  trust- 
worthy," admitted  Timothy.  "The  best  plan 
would  be  to  leave  it  to  an  absolutely  reliable 
missionary  to  distribute  as  he  may  think  expe- 
dient."   Matthew  actually  howled. 

"  Rubbish,"  replied  Alida.  "  I've  never  seen 
a  single  black  man  turned  white." 

Timothy  bit  an  angry  lip.  "You  have  seen 
little,  then,"  he  said  with  spirit,  "of  the  good 
work." 

"Show  me  a  converted  nigger!  Show  me 
one ! "  cried  Alida. 


MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS  183 

"I  haven't  got  one  in  my  pocket,"  retorted 
Timothy. 

"  But,  perhaps,  you  have  in  a  cupboard  at 
home?"  suggested  Matthew,  enjoying  his 
brother's  discomfiture. 

"Yes,  by  George!"  cried  Timothy,  his  big 
eyes  ablaze. 

"  What  a  very  improper  expression ! "  said 
Miss  Alida.  "Then,  bring  him  me  to-morrow 
and,  if  I  am  well  again,  I'll  make  a  will  and  leave 
him  all  my  money.  Yes,  you  shall  have  my 
money  for  your  missions.  Else,  I'll  give  it,  for 
soup-kitchens,  to  Matthew." 

"  I'll  bring  you  one  to-night,"  cried  Timothy 
desperately. 

"  La,  there's  no  such  thing ! "  said  Miss  Alida, 
closing  her  eyes.  u  Nor  never  could  be,"  she 
added.  "  Soup-kitchens  is  sense.  As  for  Surinam, 
it's  rubbish.  I  don't  believe  there's  no  such  place 
as  Surinam." 


Ill 

u  Oh,  leave  me  in  peace,  you  canting  humbug ! " 
exclaimed  the  younger  brother  to  his  exasperating 
companion,  in  the  street.  He  shook  off  the  other's 
sneers  and  reproaches,  and  turned  a  corner,  by 
himself. 

"  Get  a  Christian  nigger  by  to-morrow,  or  the 
money's  mine ! " — the  minister's  jeering  voice 
called  after  him. 

"  I  will,"  muttered  Timothy  between  his  teeth. 


184  MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS 

He  had  promised  readily,  sure  of  some  possible 
device.  He  would  dress  up  and  blacken  one  of 
his  pupils  at  the  Mission-House.  But,  seen 
closer,  the  plan  appeared  too  risky.  He  was 
bound  to  get  found  out.  Even  if  the  young  man 
kept  silence  (an  unreasonable  assumption),  he 
would  not  be  able  to  act,  or  look,  the  part. 

Timothy's  courage  gave  way  to  despondency. 
Success  seemed  impossible.  He  wandered 
gloomily  along  the  principal  thoroughfares  of 
Overstad.  Suddenly  a  gaudy  poster,  on  a  hoard- 
ing, caught  his  eye.  It  was  the  advertisement, 
not  new,  of  a  well-known  Amsterdam  Music  Hall. 

The  missionary  jumped.  A  copper-coloured 
"  Jubilee  "  grinned  at  him  from  the  yellow  back- 
ground. The  good  man — the  black-coated,  not 
the  black-skinned — rushed,  skipped,  ran  to  the 
telegraph  office. 

Four  hours  later  the  Reverend  Timothy 
welcomed  Mr.  Jonas  Washington  Bangs  at  the 
Overstad  Railway  Station. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  "  I  have  come.  But  I 
must  be  back,  sir,  at  ten  to-night,  to  sing  at  the 
'  Variety.' " 

"  We  can  manage  that,"  replied  the  Reverend 
Timothy.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  want  you  to 
come  here  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Impossible ! "  exclaimed  the  coloured  gentle- 
man, who  spoke  unadulterated  American.  "  To- 
morrow, sir,  I  start  for  Paris.  A  better 
engagement,  sir.     Splendiferous." 

"Then  come  with    me    immediately,"  cried 


MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS  185 

Timothy.  He  instructed  Mr.  Jonas,  as  they 
went  along,  in  the  role  which  was  required  of 
him  and  found  his  grinning  pupil  as  apt  as  he 
could  desire.  There  was  a  little  momentary 
difficulty  about  terms,  Mr.  Jonas  demanding  two 
pounds  instead  of  one.  "  I  always  negotiate  in 
pounds,"  said  Mr.  Jonas.  Ultimately  the  differ- 
ence was  split,  on  condition  of  Mr.  Jonas  ex- 
changing his  flaring  red  cravat  for  a  black  bow, 
and  removing  a  huge  coloured-glass  breast-pin 
and  studs.  On  this  subject  the  negro  gentleman 
expressed  strong  personal  feeling :  the  little 
tie  he  especially  described  as  "  outrageous,"  and 
indeed  the  effect  was  not  satisfactory,  for  his 
waistcoat  remained  a  double-breasted,  brass- 
buttoned  chess-board  and  his  pantaloons  shim- 
mered like  a  polished  pewter  pot. 

But  Timothy  lent  him  a  pair  of  black-kid 
gloves,  and  led  him  to  the  Old  Churchyard. 

"  I  must  see  Miss  Alida  at  once — at  once,"  he 
said  to  Suzan. 

Miss  Alida  sent  back  to  say  she  was  far  too 
ill.     The  nigger  grinned. 

"Tell  her,"  persisted  Timothy  importantly, 
"  I  am  here  with — Surinam ! " 

Suzan,  who  looked  thoroughly  scared,  retired 
precipitately. 

"  La,  how  interesting !  And  I  said  there  was 
no  such  place  ! "  cried  Miss  Alida,  and  ran  out  at 
once  into  the  hall. 

She  made  the  two  gentlemen  welcome,  usher- 
ing them  in,  with  many  salaams.     But  she  fought 


186  MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS 

a  little  shy  of  the  nigger,  who  visibly  impressed 
her,  and  of  whose  conversation  she  could  not 
understand  a  word. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  "I  beg  of  you."  And 
she  had  in  some  very  good  Madeira,  of  which 
both  visitors  freely  partook. 

"So  this,"  she  said,  "is  really  a  native 
Christian?" 

"  It  is  indeed,"  replied  Timothy,  sighing  con- 
tentedly. He  folded  his  arms  and  gazed  with 
benevolence  at  the  native  Christian,  in  the  little 
black  tie,  sipping  Madeira 

Miss  Alida  said  "  La ! "  Then  she  requested 
the  Reverend  Timothy  to  inquire  of  the  convert 
if  there  were  many  such  as  he. 

"Forty  thousand,"  came  the  ready  information. 

"Now  is  that  really  true?"  queried  the 
sceptical  spinster. 

"He  under-estimates  the  number,"  replied 
Timothy. 

Miss  Alida  said  "La!"  Then  she  inquired 
the  negro  gentleman's  name. 

"Jonas.     Brother  Jonas." 

"  That,  of  course,  was  the  Christian  name  they 
had  given  him.  But  what  was  his  original  heathen 
appellation  ?  "    Miss  Alida  evinced  great  interest. 

"Borrioboola  Gha,"  said  Timothy.  Miss 
Alida  ventured  to  remark  that  she  found  this 
much  finer  than  "Jonas." 

"  He  was  a  great  chief  in  his  own  country," 
said  Timothy.  These  words  he  translated  to 
Jonas — "  Great  chief— eh  ?  " 


MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS  187 

"  Great  chief/'  assented  Mr.  Washington 
Bangs. 

"A  very  important  conversion.  Far-reaching 
political  consequences.  A  whole  tract  of  country, 
twice  the  size  of  Holland,  opened  up  to  the 
missionaries,"  exclained  Timothy. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  my  unbelief,"  said  Miss  Alida. 
"  Will  the  Prince  have  some  more  Madeira? 
Madeira,  Prince?" 

"  Madeira,  very  good,"  said  the  Prince. 

"  You  mustn't  call  him  that.  He  isn't  a  Prince," 
interposed  Timothy,  who  was  growing  fearsome 
of  his  own  success.  "  Brother  Jonas  !  Brother 
Jonas,  eh?"  The  nigger  showed  all  his  teeth. 
"What  beauties!"  thought  Miss  Alida,  who 
had  never,  outside  picture-books,  seen  a  Non- 
European  before. 

"  He  is  very  handsome,  I  think,"  remarked 
Miss  Alida,  and  Timothy  realised,  with  scorn, 
that  his  specimen  was,  physically,  a  fine  one. 

"  It's  his  mind  that  is  beautiful,"  said  Timothy. 
"All  clean  and  white  now  and  pure.  What 
matter  if  his  skin  be  black  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  rich  copper-colour,"  retorted  Miss 
Alida,  "  like  my  pudding-shapes, — at  least  when 
Elizabeth  cleans  them  properly.  And  I  much 
prefer  it  to  a  mealy-complexion." 

"  Like  Matthew's,"  said  the  mean  missionary. 

"  Or  yours,"  came  the  answer,  quick  as  a  shot. 
"Yours  is  painted,  but  his  is  natural." 

"  Brute,"  thought  the  missionary.  However, 
he  only  said  :  "  Well,  now,  you've  seen  there  are 


188  MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS 

native  converts  I  hope  you're  convinced?  We 
must  be  going.  I'll  come  back  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  Do,"  replied  Miss  Alida.  "  I'm  sorry  you're 
in  such  a  hurry.  Back  to  your  work,  I  suppose? 
How  beautiful !  But  you  can  leave  this  dark 
gentleman  here  a  bit.  I  should  like  to  show  him 
to  Elizabeth  and  Suzan.  I've  never  seen  such  an 
interesting  creature  before,  in  all  my  life." 

Timothy  objected,  a  little  too  eagerly,  for  Miss 
Alida,  like  most  affluent  old  ladies,  insisted  on 
getting  her  own  way  as  soon  as  she  found  it 
crossed.  In  the  end  she  simply  ordered  the 
missionary  out  of  her  presence,  and  resumed  her 
seat,  face  to  face  with  the  interesting  stranger. 

"I  shall  keep  him  to  dinner,"  she  said.  "Eaty  ! 
Eaty ! "  and  she  motioned  with  her  fingers  to  her 
mouth. 

"  Eaty— good,"  replied  Jonas,  mindful  of  the 
Madeira. 

"  I  shall  return  to-morrow  morning.  Remem- 
ber your  promise,"  said  Timothy,  lingering, 
discomfited,  in  the  doorway. 

"I  keep  my  promises,"  answered  Alida  sharply. 
"  You  can  come  back  this  evening  and  take  him 
away." 

When  she  found  herself  alone  with  this  un- 
intelligible foreigner,  Miss  Alida's  excitement 
and  delight  knew  no  bounds.  In  her  dull,  daily 
existence  so  marvellous  an  event  upset  all  her 
ideas  of  regularity.  She  felt  somebody  else, 
happier  and  lighter.     She  was  yearning  to  prove 


MISTER   BROTHER  JONAS  189 

her  intimacy  with  the  converted  prince  to  all  the 
fusty  old  fogies  of  Overstad. 

Meanwhile,  she  treated  her  two  maids  to  a 
sight  of  him.  Both  exhibited  the  same  symptoms 
of  delighted  alarm  as  their  mistress.  The  old 
man  said  crossly,  he  believed  he  was  painted 
brown. 

Miss  Alida  left  the  door  ajar,  with  an  eye  to 
"the  conventions."  She  found  it  rather  weary 
work,  after  a  time,  sitting  opposite  her  prince, 
nodding  and  smiling.  But  she  liked  to  see  him 
grin  back,  with  a  gleam  of  his  ivory  teeth.  Also 
she  liked  to  see  him  enjoy  his  dinner,  which  he 
certainly  did. 

"  Goody — goody — eaty — eaty,"  he  repeated, 
shovelling  down  his  food. 

"They  should  teach  them  how  to  eat,"  thought 
Miss  Alida,  and  she  wondered,  with  exquisite 
thrills  of  uncertainty,  whether  her  guest,  in  his 
wicked  days,  had  eaten  his  foes. 

Dinner  was  over,  and  both  hostess  and  guest 
were  feeling  friendly  with  all  things  and  especially 
to  each  other,  when  Suzan  communicated  to  her 
mistress  the  old  man's  shameful  suggestion  of 
"paint."  Miss  Alida  grew  purple  with  anger. 
She  stretched  out  her  hand  timidly,  and  drew  it 
back  again.     The  nigger  watched  her. 

"  Mister— Brother— Jonas,"  said  Alida.  He 
nodded.  She  repeated  it  once  or  twice,  softly, 
and,  gaining  courage,  she  made  a  dash  at  the 
convert's  brown  hand  and  vigorously  rubbed  its 
back.   "Itdoesn't  come  off!"  she  cried  indignantly. 


190  MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS 

"  Go,  Suzan,  and  tell  him  to  hold  his  slanderous 
tongue ! " 

"  Goody — goody/'  said  Mr.  Washington  Bangs, 
without  moving  his  hand. 

Miss  Alida  blushed  very  red,  and  went  and  sat 
farther  off.  Then  the  nigger  did  something  to 
make  himself  agreeable.  Miss  Alida,  who  had 
never  heard  Jubilee  songs — or  any  music  outside 
her  hideous  chapel-singing — listened  in  a  tumult 
of  ecstasy  beyond  words  : 

"  Some  say  that  John  the  Baptist 
Was  nothing  but  a  Jew, 
But  the  Holy  Bible  tells  us 
He  was  a  preacher  too." 

"Oh,  Mister— Brother  Jonas!"  gasped  the 
spinster,  "Oh,  Mister— Brother  Jonas!"  The 
man  had  a  good  tenor  voice  and  he  sang  with 
exaggeration  of  feeling— all  the  nervous  passion 
of  his  excitable  race.  Miss  Alida's  simple  soul 
was  moved  to  its  deepest  depths. 

"  Why  did  they  sell  my  Dinah  ? 
Upon  my  wedding-day." 

Miss  Alida  could  not,  of  course,  understand 
the  words,  but  she  drank  in  the  liquid  roll  of  the 
music,  the  accents,  the  eyes  of  the  singer.  She 
was  flooded  with  deliciousness :  she  melted  in 
tender  tears. 

"  Oh  lub'ly  maid,  I  lub'  you  so  ! 
I  lub'  you  !    Oh  !  " 

The  singer  stopped  singing  and  looked  at  his 
watch. 


MISTER  BROTHER  JONAS  191 

"Oh,  Mister  Brother  Jonas!"  sobbed  Miss 
Alida. 

When  Timothy  was  ushered  into  the  room 
ten  minutes  later  he  found  Miss  Alida  Blom  and 
the  Christian  convert  sitting  side  by  side  on  the 
sofa.  The  Christian  convert  had  on  his  scarlet 
tie,  and  all  his  jewellery  blazed  all  over  him. 

"This  is  how  I  keep  my  promise,"  said  Miss 
Alida  coyly,  and  she  put  her  arm  round 
Washington's  neck. 

Timothy  started  back :  then  he  burst  out : 
"That  man's  an  American  nigger,  the  son  of  a 
slave." 

"A  Christian  convert,"  said  Alida. 

"  Christian  fiddlesticks !  He's  a  singer  in  a 
music-hall ! " 

"  Borrioboola  Gha,"  said  Alida,  softly  stroking 
the  brown  hand  in  her  own. 

"And  his  name  is  Bangs!  " 

"  Mine  is  Blom — for  the  present,"  answered 
Alida,  rising.  "  You— -you  are  an  impostor ! "  she 
cried,  "  Leave  this  house !  If  what  you  say  were 
true — which  it's  not — you'd  certainly  have  lost 
your  wager !  Show  me  another  convert — a 
better — if  you  can  ! " 

"  I  can't,"  whispered  Timothy,  creeping  to  the 
door,  crest-fallen.  Alida  turned  to  the  gentleman 
on  the  sofa.  "  Dear  Mister  Brother  Jonas ! "  she 
cried,  "  If  only  I  could  understand  what  you  say ! " 

"Sing,  sing  — thirsty,"  said  the  convert, 
"  Madeira  very  good." 


ALL   MY  STORY 

IT  happened  many  years  ago.  But  it  is  all  my 
story.  I  know  that  many  years  must  have 
elapsed,  because  I  was  a  young  man  at  the  time. 
And  now  I'm  middle-aged.  When  one's  life  is 
just  the  same,  day  after  day,  year  after  year,  one 
loses  count  of  time.  Still,  my  blood  flowed  faster 
in  those  days  :  I  don't  think  I  should  do  it  now. 
And  I'm  bald.  And — and  Sarah's  hair's  got  a 
deal  of  grey  in  it. 

When  I  came  to  this  town  from  the  country, 
my  lot  was  an  uninteresting  one :  it  has  always 
been  that.  I  was  an  orphan  :  I  had  been  brought 
up  in  a  small  asylum,  as  a  youth  I  had  been  set 
to  do  the  writing  connected  with  the  place.  For 
from  childhood  I  have  written  a  beautiful  hand, 
equal,  tidy,  like  copper-plate.  And  I  can  do 
sums.  I  have  never  been  good  at  anything  else. 
I  was  twenty-one,  when  the  old  lady  died 
whose  beneficence  had  supported  our  institution. 
She  was  the  only  protectress  or  sort  of  parent 
I  had  ever  had— too  far  above  me  to  be  anything 
like  a  real  mother,  but  animated  by  the  best 
intentions.  "My  dears,"  she  would  say,  very 
grand  in  her  silks  and  furs,  "  always  remember 
that  I  love  you  as  if  you  were  my  own  children, 


ALL  MY  STORY  193 

and  not  common  children  at  all."  When  she 
died,  they  closed  the  institution,  and  I  was  turned 
adrift.  No,  it  is  hardly  fair  to  say  that.  Her 
nephew,  who  inherited  all  her  property,  got  me 
my  present  situation  in  this  town — dear  me,  that 
was  thirty-four  years  ago— as  clerk  to  old  Abrams, 
the  money-lender.  Old  Abrams  is  dead :  I  am 
with  his  son. 

So  I  came  up  to  the  town,  a  young  fellow  of 
twenty-two,  that  had  never  been  away  from  a 
country  orphanage.  Needless  to  say,  I  was 
terribly  forlorn  and  miserable.  Ah,  how  lonely  I 
was  !  What  fools  young  people  are  to  care  about 
being  lonely !  And  old  people  too!  If  you  come 
to  reason  it  out — but  no,  it's  no  use  reasoning. 
I  have  not  got  accustomed  to  being  lonely 
yet. 

Still,  I  shall  never  forget  that  first  evening 
in  my  new  town  lodging.  Tis  the  same  lodging 
to-day :  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  room  : 
it  is  airy,  and  from  the  window  you  can  see  the 
tops  of  trees.  They  belong  to  the  cemetery. 
But  Widow  Both,  my  landlady — she  has  been 
dead  these  last  ten  years — was  taciturn  and, 
when  she  spoke,  cantankerous.  Nobody  can 
deny  that :  her  daughter  has  a  touch  of  her 
temper,  but,  then,  the  daughter  suffers  from 
asthma,  and  is  deformed.  They  were  not  the 
sort  of  people,  certainly,  to  cheer  a  lonesome 
lad,  nor  did  they  make  any  attempt  to  do  so. 
I  do  not  think  that  I  shed  actual  tears  that  first 
night.     I   hope  not.     But,  undoubtedly,  I  was 


194  ALL  MY   STORY 

very  miserable,  more  miserable,  on  the  whole, 
than  I  have  ever  been  since. 

I  got  up  from  a  restless  bed  next  morning 
and,  with  a  beating  heart,  I  went  to  my  new 
situation.  Dear  me,  I  waited  in  the  little  ante- 
room for  a  few  minutes  till  my  master  came  in. 
How  many  people  have  I  seen  wait  there  since, 
whose  hearts  must  have  beat  worse  than  mine  ! 
I  must  say  hard  things  of  Isaac  Abrams,  though 
he  be  dead,  and,  in  fact,  why  should  I  spare  him  ? 
He  was  a  usurious  landlord  and  money-lender, 
a  scoundrel  that  lived  by  exploiting  human 
wickedness  and  folly  and  innocence.  "There's 
no  fool  like  a  good  fool,"  that  was  a  favourite 
axiom  of  his.  On  the  very  first  day  I  saw  what 
a  blackguard  he  was,  and  I  loathed  the  whole 
business.  Yet  there  was  nothing  really  criminal 
in  it,  nothing  even  absolutely  wrong,  if  you  come 
to  analyse  each  separate  transaction.  If  fools 
want  money  why  should  wiser  men  not  lend  it 
them  ?  /  was  a  fool  to  object  to  a  reasonable 
and  lucrative  form  of  business.  Lucrative  to 
others.  I  earned  forty  pounds  a  year :  I  now 
earn  seventy-five.  Soon  I  even  got  to  enjoy,  the 
while  I  loathed,  the  work.  The  old  man's  cunning 
and  cleverness  were  a  constant  delight  to  me. 
The  son  has  neither,  but  now  I  help  the  son. 

That  first  day,  however,  I  felt  doubly  melan- 
choly :  I  was  heartily  glad  when  the  hour  of 
deliverance  struck,  and  I  could  leave  the  dingy 
desk,  the  dingy  office,  the  dingy  papers,  and  get 
out  into  the  open  air.     Not  the  "fresh"  air,  as 


ALL   MY   STORY  195 

we  country  people  understand  it.  Though  I  don't 
miss  that  now,  I  have  taken  an  occasional  holiday 
in  the  country :  I  am  not  sorry,  on  the  whole,  to 
get  back  to  my  work. 

I  had  purposely  got  a  room  at  some  slight 
distance  from  the  office.  The  walk  of  about  half- 
a-mile  used  always  to  take  me  ten  minutes.  Of 
late  it  has  got  to  be  eleven,  I  could  not  say  why. 
For  a  man  isn't  old — surely— at  fifty-six ! 

The  walk  isn't  much  to  boast  of— through  the 
mean  back  streets  of  a  second-rate  town.  You 
can  easily  picture  it  to  yourself:  the  tall  houses 
on  either  side— they  get  lower  later  on,  but  many 
of  them  are  tenements— kwith  flower-pots  and 
dirty  rags  in  the  windows,  the  narrow  roadway 
between,  with  costers'  carts,  and  organs,  and 
dancing  children,  the  dull  strip  of  sky  above,  a 
watery  grey,  or  a  sultry  blue.  That  first  after- 
noon— I  went  back  at  five — the  streets  seemed 
more  sordidly  ugly  than  I  ever  have  thought 
them  since.  Perhaps  because  the  July  day  was 
so  hot  and  glorious.  Perhaps  because  no  one 
knew  me  of  all  this  jostling  crowd.  In  our 
village,  the  night  before  last,  with  all  the  sweet 
smells  and  shadows  upon  the  shining  earth,  it 
had  been  "Good  evening,  Mr.  Spannet!"  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  from  door  to  door.  God !  in 
this  cheerless  life  of  mine— oh,  but  that  is  wrong : 
I  have  had  my  share  of  blessings — there  never 
has  been  a  gloomier  night  than  that  brilliant 
July  Thursday  along  the  very  streets  I  have 
walked  this  afternoon. 


196  ALL  MY  STORY 

I  walked,  then,  that  bright  evening  on  my 
own  sad  thoughts  intent.  I  fear  that  I  hung 
my  head.  But  I  had  to  lift  it  at  the  corners  to 
make  sure  of  my  unaccustomed  road.  And  it 
was  at  the  corner  of— no,  I  dare  not  mention  the 
name  of  the  street  even  now — it  was  there  the 
great  thing  happened  which  began  the  whole 
wonderful  story — pooh,  how  absurd  it  sounds — 
the  old  man  looked  up  from  his  cobbling,  and 
gazed  at  me  for  one  instant  and  nodded ;  that 
was  all. 

He  was  sitting  in  front  of  his  poor  little 
house,  on  a  straw-bottomed  chair :  he  was  cob- 
bling. A  little  way  off  some  children  were 
playing  battledore  and  shuttle-cock.  He  was 
an  old  man  with  a  worn,  kind-tempered  face. 
He  nodded  "  good  evening  " ;  that  was  all. 

I  nodded  back  and  passed  on.  But  I  fancy 
my  step  was  a  great  deal  lighter :  I  know  that 
my  heart  was.  I  had  found,  somehow,  a  friend. 
The  world,  after  all,  is  not  so  lonely  a  place  as 
it  seems. 

I  thought  of  the  old  cobbler  frequently  in  the 
evening  :  I  slept  better  that  night.  The  office 
and  its  master  of  course  engrossed  my  interest, 
but  every  now  and  then  would  come  the  vague 
recollection  of  something  pleasant,  and  when  I 
reflected  what  it  might  be,  it  was  the  cobbler. 

Next  morning  I  looked  forward  with  some 
anxiety  to  meeting  him  again.  Would  he  be  at  the 
street-corner?  I  wondered.  As  I  approached 
the  spot,  I  could  hardly  restrain  my  curiosity. 


ALL  MY  STORY  197 

I  hurried  on  till  I  could  get  a  sight  of  it— he 
was  sitting  there ;  in  another  moment  I  was 
beside  him,  expectant — doubtless  last  night's 
coincidence  would  not  again  repeat  itself,  he 
had  taken  me,  doubtless,  for  some  other — I 
laughed  at  myself  for  my  foolishness,  he  looked 
up  and  nodded  me  a  solemn  "  good  morning."  I 
nodded  back  and  passed  on.  Not  till  then  did 
I  realise  how  much  I  should  have  missed  my 
new  friend's  recognition!  How  ridiculous  it 
seems,  how  important !  in  my  ridiculously  un- 
important life.  I  am  sure  I  worked  more  cheer- 
fully that  second  day,  although  Abrams  now 
showed  himself  in  his  full  temper,  an  abusive 
evil-thinking  old  man. 

And  the  cobbler's  morning  and  evening  salute 
—oh,  laugh  if  you  like !— became  the  constant 
pleasure  of  my  life.  Yes,  of  course  I  had  other 
pleasures,  not  many.  I  suppose  I  am  a  dull 
man,  and  might  have  done  other  things  or  done 
things  different.  I  suppose  I  might  have  looked 
out  for  another  situation  than  the  one  which  had 
been  found  for  me.  Such  an  idea  never  entered 
into  my  head:  I  should  have  thought  it  black 
ingratitude  to  my  honoured  benefactor.  Some 
men  take  life  as  they're  told  to.  On  the  whole 
I  did  very  well,  earning  my  bread  and  butter, 
eating  it  quietly  in  my  room.  I  had  a  nervous 
horror  of  dismissal,  want  of  employment,  poverty, 
pauperism.  The  cobbler  and  I,  we  always  nodded 
to  each  other,  solemnly,  without  exchanging  a 
word.     All   summer  he  would  sit  outside,  he 


198  ALL  MY  STORY 

went  indoors  on  the  first  of  October  and  took 
his  place  behind  a  cracked  widow-pane.  I  have 
never  known  it  otherwise  than  cracked. 

So  my  life  went  on  for  seventeen  years,  a 
long  time,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it,  but  not 
unless  you  do.  A  long  time  in  which  nothing 
happens,  though  it  may  pass  very  slowly,  is  very 
quickly  past.  My  daily  work  was  monotonously 
regular,  but  then  so  was  my  weekly  pay.  Both 
slowly  increased,  as  the  business  flourished.  I 
cannot  say  I  was  satisfied  with  my  lot,  nor  yet 
was  I  dissatisfied.  The  best  thing,  I  always 
fancy,  is  to  take  life  exactly  as  it  comes, 
not  weighing  pros  or  cons.  I  was  interested, 
during  those  young  days,  in  Abrams'  daughter 
Sarah,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  To-day 
she  has  seven  children,  a  frowsy  grey  fringe,  and 
no  waist. 

The  cobbler  slipped  on  through  life,  unper- 
ceived,  from  about  sixty  years  of  age  to  very  near 
eighty.  Morning  and  evening,  we  never  missed 
our  salute.  Sometimes  he  would  smile,  but  very 
rarely.  I  used  to  wait  for  his  smile :  it  did  not 
come  more  than  once  a  month.  I  had  got  to  call 
him  "  Amos  "  in  my  own  mind,  for  no  reason,  but 
that  I  thought  the  name  would  suit  him,  and  I 
invented  endless  stories  about  his  possible  career, 
as  I  walked  along  the  streets.  In  reality  I  knew 
nothing.  There  were  plenty  of  people  about  the 
house  he  lived  in :  I  could  not  trace  any  con- 
nection between  him  and  them.  During  those 
earlier  years  he  was  not  as  prominent  in  my  life 


ALL  MY   STORY  199 

as  I  have  made  him  afterwards.  I  had  my  own 
interests  at  the  office  and  at  home.  I  had  made 
a  few  friends.  He  was  just — in  the  daily  walk 
to  my  business — the  old  man  at  the  corner  who 
nodded  "  Good-day." 

Yet,  when  he  was  absent  from  his  place  one 
summer  morning,  my  heart  stood  still.  Somehow 
I  had  never  realised  the  possibility  of  this  :  of 
course  he  must  be  ill.  Before  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing,  I  had  turned  into  the  house,  had  pushed 
open  the  door  which  leads  to  the  room  where  the 
cracked  window  is,  and  stood  looking  in. 

The  old  man  sat  by  the  table,  his  face  resting 
on  his  hands — a  paper  lay  before  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  said  aloud.  "  Can 
I  help?"  It  seemed  incredible  that,  after  these 
seventeen  years,  I  should  actually  be  speaking 
to  "Amos." 

He  looked  up  with  a  start.  "  Ah,  good  morn- 
ing !  "  he  said.  "  Is  it  you  ?  Thank  you.  No." 
There  was  such  misery  in  his  face  and  voice 
that  I  could  not  pass  on. 

"What  is  it?"  I  said.  "Tell  me.  We  are 
almost  old  friends." 

He  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  "You  cannot 
help  me,"  he  answered  bitterly.  "Nobody  can: 
it's  too  late.  What  do  such  fools  as  we  with  such 
sharks  as  money-lenders  ?  " 

I  pricked  up  my  ears.  "  I — I  know  a  good  deal 
about  money-lending,"  I  said.  "  I — I  have  friends 
in  the  business.  Is  that  paper  a  bond  ?  If  any- 
one can  do  anything  for  you,  I  can." 


200  ALL   MY   STORY 

"'Tis  a  bad  business;  you  should  have  no 
friends  in  it,"  he  said :  but  he  held  out  the  paper, 
and  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  that  it  was  in  my 
own  hand-writing. 

It  was  a  bond  from  a  certain  James  Ranklin, 
one  of  Abrams'  rascally  transactions.  Rascally  ? 
Well,  really,  it  all  depends.  The  man,  a  green- 
grocer, had  got  a  loan  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  on  condition  that  if  he  did  not  return  the 
money,  with  ten  per  cent,  interest,  on  or  before 
the  twenty-second  of  July,  his  whole  business 
should  become  the  property  of  the  money-lender. 
I  put  down  the  paper.  The  twenty-second  was 
that  very  day. 

"  Tis  my  daughter's  husband,"  said  the  cobbler. 
"  The  silly  things  only  ventured  to  tell  me  this 
morning.  They'd  been  putting  it  off  from  day  to 
day.  There's  the  seven  of  them,  father,  mother 
and  five  children,  turned  out  on  to  the  streets 
to-night." 

I  hesitated,  not  knowing  what  to  suggest. 

"  And  the  thing  not  even  inevitable ! "  he  con- 
tinued. "  I  could  have  got  them  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds, — I  could  just  about  have  got 
them  that — but  not  in  half  a  day  !  " 

"  You  could !  "  I  stammered. 

"  Ay,  I  could  :  I've  got  about  that  in  the  world, 
but  I'd  need  twenty-four  hours  to  get  at  it." 

"  The  deed  leaves  you  till  six  to-night." 

"  'Tis  no  use.  The  cowardly  simpletons.  And 
the  business  worth  eight  hundred  pounds  if  'tis 
worth  a  penny ! " 


ALL  MY  STORY  201 

u  Your  name  isn't  Amos  ?  "  I  said  abruptly. 

He  glanced  up,  annoyed.  "  My  name's  Thomas 
Ruff,"  he  answered.     "  What  of  that  ?  " 

"  I'm  glad  to  know,"  I  responded,  "  Mr.  Ruff, 
— 'tis  your  daughter,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Ay,  my  only  daughter,  as  good  a  girl  as  ever 
stepped.  And  James  is  good  enough,  though 
a  trifle  timid.  And  the  children, — dear  sweet 
children" — he  broke  off  with  something  like  a 
smothered  oath.  "  That  such  blackguards  should 
be  allowed  to  exist,"  he  said.  *  Would  that  I  had 
the  killing  of  the  man  who  drew  up  that  deed ! " 
He  pointed  to  my  paper  on  the  table. 

"  Mr.  Ruff,  did  I  understand  you  to  say  you 
could  have  that  money  to-night?" 

"  To-morrow  morning,  at  the  earliest." 

"  But  to-morrow,  you  are  sure,  you  could  have 
the  whole  amount  ?  " 

"  Certain  sure." 

"  Thomas  Ruff,  will  you  let  me  look  at  that 
paper  again  ?  " 

He  handed  it  across ;  I  took  it  leisurely,  looked 
over  it,  and  tore  it  in  two. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  I  calmly  answered, 
The  date  is  the  twenty-third.  You  have  till 
to-morrow  night." 

"What  folly  is  this?  Here,  give  me  those 
scraps  !    Are  you  mad  ?  " 

"Get  your  money,"  I  replied,  burying  the 
fragments  in  my  trousers'  pocket.  "You  have 
time  till  to-morrow.     It  will  not  be  called  for  till 


202  ALL  MY  STORY 

to-morrow  at  six.  Then,  mind  that  your  son-in- 
law  has  it.  The  money  and  ten  per  cent,  interest. 
The  less  any  of  you  talk  about  it  the  better. 
Don't  say  a  word,  but  promise  the  money.  Good- 
day." 

I  left  the  house  and,  hurrying  to  the  office, 
got  the  same  bond  re-written,  with  the  altered 
date,  and  replaced  amongst  the  others  before  my 
master  came  in.  Of  course  I  tore  up  the  original 
deed,  as  I  had  torn  up  Amos's  duplicate. 

Presently,  while  Abrams  was  arranging  his 
business  for  the  day : 

"  There's  a  loan  falls  due  this  afternoon,"  he 
said.  "  A  good  speculation,  I  fancy ;  I  don't  think 
the  fellow  can  pay,"  and  he  rubbed  his  hands 
softly. 

"Which  is  it?"  I  asked,  going  across  to  the 
cupboard,  where  these  things  were  kept. 

"  Name  of  Ranklin,"  replied  old  Isaac.  "  James 
Ranklin,  greengrocer." 

I  got  out  my  new  copy  and  looked  over  it. 
u  To-morrow,"  I  said  coolly,  going  back  to  my 
desk. 

"  Hey,  what  ?  "  exclaimed  Isaac. 

"  The  bill  isn't  due  till  to-morrow,"  I  answered, 
writing  away. 

Old  Isaac  produced  his  little  black  pocket-book. 
"  I've  got  it  down  the  twenty-second,"  he  said. 

"You've  made  a  mistake,"  I  answered,  dipping 
my  pen  into  the  ink.  "  It's  down  the  twenty-third 
in  the  bond." 

He  went  across  and  had  a  look,  pishing  and 


ALL  MY  STORY  203 

pshawing    a    little,   for    he    didn't  like  making 
mistakes. 

"  After  all,  it  doesn't  matter  a  bit,"  he  said  ; 
"only,  'tis  awkward:  you'll  have  to  go  for  the 
money.     I  have  to  travel  to-morrow  to  that  sale." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  I  said.  "  It  doesn't  matter, 
I  can  go." 

"  I  don't  like  you  to.  It's  not  the  sort  of  work 
for  you.  You  bungle  it.  You're  too  soft-hearted. 
You're  only  good  at  desk-work." 

"  I  know  you  think  so,  sir,  but  I'll  do  my  best." 

That  evening  the  cobbler  was  missing  from 
his  doorstep,  and  next  morning,  in  my  nervous- 
ness, I  went  a  roundabout. 

My  employer  was  absent  all  day  as  I  knew  he 
would  be :  at  six  I  got  my  hat,  and  went  across 
to  the  street  where  Ranklin  lived. 

As  soon  as  the  man  came  into  the  shop  I 
recognised  him  and  he  me. 

"  Walk  inside,"  he  said. 

In  the  back-parlour  were  Thomas,  his  comely 
daughter,  and  a  couple  of  fair-haired  children. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Ranklin.  But  I  preferred  to 
stand. 

"  Well?  "said  Thomas. 

" Have  you  got  the  money? "  I  asked. 

"Yes,  it's  here." 

*  Then  pay  it  to  me." 

"  To  you ! "  exclaimed  both  men  together. 

"Yes,  to  me.  Please  ask  no  questions.  Here 
is  the  receipt." 

They   paid    the  money  across  the  table  in 


204  ALL  MY  STORY 

silence.  I  found  the  sum  was  correct,  pocketed 
it,  and  gave  them  old  Isaac's  receipt,  with  my 
name  to  it. 

"  You  will  do  me  a  kindness,"  I  said,  "  by  never 
alluding  to  this  matter  again.  That  is  in  your 
interest  as  much  as  in  mine."  1  held  out  my 
hand.  The  younger  man  took  it :  old  Amos  did 
not. 

"  It  was  the  twenty-second,"  said  old  Amos 
suddenly. 

I  did  not  answer  but  turned  to  go.  In  the 
doorway,  however,  I  paused. 

"Absolute  silence!"  I  said,  as  impressively 
as  I  could.  "Mind,  absolute  silence  is  impera- 
tive, as  much  on  your  behalf  as  on  my  own." 

Then  I  went  away,  and  that  same  night,  late, 
on  his  return,  I  brought  Isaac  Abrams  the  money. 
He  was  terribly  put  out,  and  abused  me,  but  the 
sale — selling  up  a  farmer — had  been  much  to  his 
advantage,  and  next  day  he  apologised  to  me  for 
reproaches  which  he  himself  declared  to  have 
been  utterly  irrational.     I  barely  responded. 

On  passing  the  cobbler's,  with  some  consider- 
able tremor,  I  found  his  usual  place  unoccupied, 
nor  did  he  appear  at  the  window.  This  time 
I  did  not  enter  to  seek  him.  He  never  sat  out 
again :  he  never  occupied  his  winter-corner. 
Once  only,  unexpectedly,  I  met  him  in  the  street. 
He  looked  the  other  way. 

Soon  afterwards  he  went  to  live  with  his 
children.  I  suppose  he  is  not  dead.  His  room 
is  occupied  by  a  rag  and  bone  woman,  who  drinks. 


ALL  MY  STORY  205 

Nobody  says  good-day  to  me  along  my  daily 
road. 

Well,  that  deed  I  have  just  narrated  has  been 
the  one  great  event  of  my  fifty-six  years  of  life. 
In  fact  it  seems  about  the  only  thing  I  have  ever 
done,  the  only  actual  act.  All  the  rest  has  just 
been  letting  happen.  Most  people,  I  suppose, 
would  call  the  deed  a  crime.  The  law  would,  of 
course,  and  the  judges,  and  the  lawyers.  When  a 
man  has  been  in  the  midst  of  such  work  as  mine 
for  more  than  thirty  years,  he  laughs  to  think  what 
lawyers  and  judges  call  a  crime,  and  what  they 
don't.  But  some  people,  the  good  people,  would 
say  it  was  a  sin  ?  I  suppose  it  was.  Perhaps  I 
am  all  wrong— I  don't  know :  I'm  not  a  clever 
man,  and  my  life  has  been  so  tiresome — I  suppose 
it  was  a  sin,  but  though  it  was,  I  cannot  help 
thanking  God  I  had  the  courage  to  commit  it. 


THE  RING 

RELIGION  takes  many  forms.  Ever  since 
little  naked  man  lifted  timid  eyes  to  the 
great,  far  heavens  above  him  and,  glancing  down 
again,  saw  his  little  naked  neighbour,  as  wistful, 
as  apprehensive  as  himself. 

Dutch  religion  is  conversely  introspective.  It 
realises  subjective  corruption  by  objective 
corruptness.  Personal  non-perfectibility  is  the 
logical  inference  from  the  perpetual  discovery  of 
your  neighbour's  faults. 

"Old  Piety"  sat  on  the  seat  outside  his  trim 
red  and  white  home.  The  sky  was  pale-blue 
with  a  single  bright  star  in  it :  the  fields  were  a 
deeper  green.  Over  the  old  man's  head,  in  the 
great  fresh  chestnut,  a  thrush  was  talking  about 
the  weather,  calling  approval  to  a  friend  in  the 
beeches  beyond  of  the  lovely  spring  evening 
and  expressing  hope  that  this  sort  of  thing  was 
going  to  last.  "  So  favourable  to  nest-building," 
said  the  thrush  ;  and  it  chortled  with  expectancy. 
Old  Piety  drew  his  slow  pipe  from  his  lips. 

"Just  listen  to  the  birds!"  said  his  wife  at 
her  window,  "  praising  their  Maker  !  " 

Old  Piety  smiled  a  grim  smile.    He  praised  his 


THE  RING  207 

Maker,  honestly,  in  prosperity  and  in  tribulation, 
but  he  knew  the  birds  make  that  noise  because 
they  have  to,  like  a  brook. 

"I  wish  men  could  agree,  like  birds,"  con- 
tinued the  wife,  with  hesitation,  always  doubtful 
to  say  something  unreasonable,  after  forty  years 
of  marriage  with  a  man  whose  every  remark  was 
sage. 

"  Birds  don't  agree,"  replied  Old  Piety. 

The  buxom  wife  sighed,  a  pleasant-faced 
woman  with  a  curiously  mild  voice  for  such  a 
pair  of  arms.  A  woman  with  no  will  of  her  own 
but  to  follow  and  obey  her  husband,  telling  him 
everything  and  asking  his  advice.  "  Well,  they 
easily  might,"  she  ventured,  ''they  haven't  got 
religion  to  quarrel  about."  She  gazed  up  into  the 
green  mass  of  foliage.  "  It  must  be  quite  easy 
to  serve  God,"  she  said,  *t  if  you  haven't  got  to 
worry  about  religion ! " 

"  Woman,  you  blaspheme ! "  replied  Hannes, 
alias  "  Old  Piety."  He  spoke  with  authority,  the 
prosperous,  the  position-full  personage  of  the 
place,  well-considered,  well-intentioned,  fairly 
well-off,  a  good  man,  that  would  have  been 
richer,  had  all  had  their  due,  kindly,  if  stern,  a 
man  who  always  unhesitatingly  knew  what  was 
right  and  unhesitatingly  did  it.  A  man  who,  by 
the  grave  of  his  last  orphan  grandchild,  had 
said  :  "  Blessed  be  the  Name  of  the  Lord ! "  and 
had  meant  it.  "Was  heaven  so  empty?"  said 
the  weeping  wife. 

The    house    was    empty :    life    was    empty : 


208  THE  RING 

nothing  was  left.  The  single  son  had  grown  to 
man's  estate — how  long  ago  it  seems ! — the  joy  of 
his  exacting  parents'  hearts,  walking  straight, 
with  quick  and  careful  step :  he  had  married  a 
girl  as  simply  virtuous  as  himself,  as  welcome 
a  presence  by  the  old  folks'  hearth :  all  that  was 
over  now,  for  ever.  The  son  had  been  struck 
down,  by  typhoid,  in  the  bloom  of  his  honest 
manhood :  some  months  later  the  widow  had 
closed  a  pair  of  tearless  eyes,  too  weary  to  open 
again.  The  children  she  left  behind  her,  a  boy 
and  a  girl,  had  played,  like  lambent  sunshine, 
through  the  grandparents'  chill,  grey  lives. 
They  had  beamed,  with  an  ever-increasing 
warmth  and  radiance,  just  a  little  disconcerting, 
when  you  are  very  Presbyterian,  and  a  brightness 
falls,  with  too  much  dance  and  yet  more  laughter, 
over  your  solemn  path.  The  grandparents' 
attitude  was  often  protestful.  The  children, 
happy  and  harmless  withal,  grew  up  in  an 
inevitable  atmosphere  of:  "don't"  and  "'tis 
wrong."  Most  things  you  wanted  to  do  were 
wrong  in  Old  Piety's  religion.  He  did  not  want 
to  do  them. 

Suddenly,  Luke,  breaking  loose,  had  "gone 
for  a  sailor." — "Queer  choice!"  mused  Old 
Piety,  not  understanding  at  all.  The  school- 
master came  one  day  and  found  for  the  old  man, 
on  a  faded  map,  the  place  where  the  sailor  lad 
lay  buried — among  the  black  niggers  we  send 
the  missionaries  to — out  in  China.  Grandfather 
lifted   his   dim  eyes  to  blithe,  blond  Everdine. 


THE  RING  209 

'  Girls  can't  go  a-travelling,"  he  said  with  satis- 
faction, "  we  shall  keep  you  with  us."  But  two 
years  later  Everdine  sailed  away  on  a  voyage 
from  which  there  is  no  returning.  To  a  land 
that  the  schoolmaster  wots  little  of.  The  chart's 
in  the  Bible.  Grandmother,  through  the  long, 
dull  Sunday  evenings,  prayerfully  looked  for  it 
there. 

Nephews  and  nieces,  and  the  children  of 
these,  were  left  to  the  childless  couple,  but  what 
is  another  man's  offspring  to  him  whose  life  now 
ends  with  himself?  True,  the  good  old  name 
would  not  die  out  in  the  village — far  from  it ! — 
but  that,  to  the  well-informed— £0.  everybody — 
was  only  as  a  sugar-coating  to  an  extra-bitter 
pill.  For  Hannes  Pypers — Old  Piety— had 
quarrelled  with  his  brother  Will  thirty  years 
ago  over  the  testament  of  a  maiden  aunt,  and  the 
quarrel  had  left  the  brothers  dead  to  each  other, 
except  in  silently  burning  wrath  through  all  the 
slow,  side  by  side  summers  and  winters,  alive, 
each  in  his  own  work  of  underground  antagonism 
and  rivalry,  fighting  everywhere,  after  an  in- 
juriously severed  partnership,  for  greater 
material  prosperity,  parish  precedence,  church 
place.  It  was  no  longer  Pypers  brothers  that 
built,  and  bossed,  everything  in  Rondebak. 
"  Which  Pypers  ? "  either  scornful  brother  now 
retorted  on  the  inquiring  stranger.  The  years 
slid  on :  children  and  grandchildren  passed,  im- 
passive, daily,  in  the  narrow  streets.  William 
died :  that  made  no  difference.     Nay,  it  did :  he 


210  THE  RING 

had  been  a  church-elder,  thereby  keeping  Hannes 
out  of  a  greatly  coveted  office.  With  fierce  con- 
tentment the  younger  brother  took  possession 
of  the  vacant  seat  in  the  front  state-pew.  He 
wore  correct  crape-band  mourning :  "  We're  not 
of  the  common  sort/'  he  said.  His  wife  never 
asked  him  to  notice  the  dead  brother's  widow  or 
family,  financially  far  better-off,  through  the  un- 
holy inheritance.  The  wife  thought  as  "my 
man"  bid  her:  there  was  peace  in  the  house. 
"/  got  my  little  fortin  honest,"  was  Hannes's 
only  allusion  to  his  wealthier  relatives.  It  came 
up  frequently.  His  integrity  was  manifest.  And 
he  had  a  way  of  nodding  up  at  the  minister 
during  the  hour-long  discourse  which  had  gained 
him  the  honorary  appellation  :  "Old  Piety." 

He  honestly  deserved  it :  his  religion  was  of 
the  genuine  historic  sort  he  had  inherited  from  a 
long  line  of  fathers.  It  was  not  of  the  kind  that 
forgives  sin  or  a  sinner,  not  of  the  kind  that 
allows  itself  latitude  in  anything  or  ever  draws 
a  napkin  over  a  stain.  But  it  meant  itself. 
"Whited  sepulchres  are  worst,"  it  said,  and 
made  windows  to  all  sides  of  the  human  charnel- 
house.  But  no  man  has  ever  seen  his  own 
skeleton.  Old  Piety's  self-investigation  was 
academic.  He  humbly  confessed  to  his  Maker 
the  failings  he  did  not  know  himself  to  possess. 

Still,  he  loved  what  the  Dutch  Presbyterian 
calls  his  "  kerk."  And  he  respected,  with  strong 
animadversion,  his  minister.  These  "  Dominies  " 
— in  Dutch  parlance— were  young  and  foolish — 


THE   RING  211 

the  elder  shook  his  head— and  they  babbled  of 
mysteries  that  even  he  could  not  fathom,  but  the 
poor  learned,  ignorant  lads  were  still,  for  the 
time  being,  "  the  Dominie."  His  voice  sank, 
reverent.  The  unexpressed  desire  of  his  life 
had  been  to  see  a  son  of  his,  grandson  of  his 
"  Dominie," — the  Dominie — Dominie  of  Ronde- 
bak.  His  lips  grew  thin  around  his  pipe :  his 
face  grew  hard. 

And  now  a  Pypers  was  Dominie  of  Rondebak, 
one  of  them  other  Pyperses,  nephew  James's 
pale-haired  boy.  "Wim  was  his  name?"  Old 
Piety  had  not  voted  against  him  :  the  poor  child's 
sermon  had  not  been  worse  than  that  of  other 
lads.  What  a  sermon  might  Everdine's  brother 
not  have  preached,  had  he  taken  to  his  books, 
instead  of  sailing  away  to  sea !  Ah,  what  a  head  ! 
But  a  head's  nothing  without  grace.  Old  Piety 
sighed.  Pray  Heaven  young  Wim  at  least  get 
grace ! 

The  village  had  followed  Wim  Pypers'  elec- 
tion with  quite  unusual  interest :  it  had  been  a 
family  event.  What  would  Old  Piety  do  ?  For 
everything  depended  on  him.  Lord  paramount 
and  leader  supreme  of  the  "  Church  Council,"  of 
the  whole  religious  sentiment  of  Rondebak.  A 
thrill  ran  through  the  community,  when  Old 
Piety  gave  a  mild,  colourless  vote  for  Wim. 

During  nearly  a  year  young  Wim  Pypers 
worked  on  in  the  difficult,  irrational  round  of 
parson-apprenticeship,  the  immature  boy-care  of 
a  parish.    He  did  his  very  best.    His  grand-uncle 


212  THE   RING 

never  opposed  him.  Only  smiled  pityingly  some- 
times, and,  in  the  inmost  seclusion  of  home,  said  : 
" Ah,  well!" 

The  lord  of  the  manor,  remembering  all  the 
upsets  with  all  the  former  men,  probationers  and 
others,  declared  he  would  never  again  have  any 
other  but  a  rival  Pypers  for  parson,  as  long  as 
Old  Piety  lived. 

But  this  chill  repose  was  rudely  broken  in  upon 
towards  Easter,  when  the  great  annual  celebra- 
tion of  the  Communion  drew  nigh.  Old  Piety  had 
first  spoken  to  the  minister  "  under  four  eyes," 
as  he  said,  stopping  him  by  the  green  village- 
duckpond,  one  morning,  amongst  much  cackling, 
unable  to  enter  the  manse,  now  that  "  one  of  them 
other  Pyperses  "  dwelt  there.  The  minister  had 
simply  answered  :  "  No." 

"  No  ?    Two  can  play  at  no ! "  said  Old  Piety. 

Therefore,  unwilling  but  constrained,  the  old 
man  had  spoken  again,  at  the  meeting  of  the 
Church  Council.  The  elders  and  deacons  had 
turned  up  foolish  faces  of  amaze.  "  Ah  ?  Ah  ?  " — 
yes,  Old  Piety  was  right  again,  of  course.  Quite 
true.  Nobody  to  equal  Old  Piety  in  appraising 
the  fitness  of  matters  religious  !  "  Ah ! "  When 
the  old  man  sat  down,  there  was  a  weighty 
silence.  "  Therefore  I  must  ask  of  you  :  '  Will 
you? '  "  had  been  his  concluding  words. 

The  minister  was  very  young,  white-faced. 
His  eyes  were  exceedingly  troubled  :  his  voice 
was  intentionally  firm.  "  I  will  not,"  he  said. 
He  felt  that  he  was  going  against  all  the  brethren. 


THE   RING  213 

They  screwed  up  their  cloudy  faces  in  a  deepening 
gloom  of  disaproval. 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Old  Piety,  portentously,  and, 
refusing  to  chatter  over  the  event  amongst  the 
interested  brethren,  walked,  with  sententious 
steps,  down  the  watchful  road,  home. 

Immediately  the  rival  Pyperses  closed  round 
their  pet  bantling,  their  phoenix,  the  boy-parson 
of  Rondebak.  First  they  whispered,  soon  they 
clamoured,  of  envy,  malice,  and  uncharitableness 
under  the  easy  cloak  of  religiosity.  "  Not  wear 
a  ring,  indeed  ?    Not  wear  a  ring  ?    Ha  !  " 

The  tall,  angular  elder  stood,  on  the  final 
Saturday,  in  the  white-washed  vestry-room,  with 
his  gaping  audience  of  hard-handed  brethren 
around  him.  Opposite  them  sat  the  young 
minister,  alone,  his  two  white  hands,  with  the 
ring,  on  his  black  knee.  The  fresh  morning  sun- 
light played  through  the  green  shutters.  The 
more  seriously  inclined  of  the  villagers  waited 
about  or  looked  across  from  their  work  at  the 
dead  vestry  wall.  There  was  life  behind  it,  inside. 
The  religious  life  of  Rondebak. 

"  Hand  me  the  Word,  Brother  Bulk ! "  com- 
manded Old  Piety.  His  voice  was  terrible,  in 
its  cold  impressiveness.  He  unclasped  the  faded, 
stuffy  volume,  and  at  once  the  live  words  leapt 
from  its  page.  "  '  Not  with  broidered  hair,'  "  he 
read,  pointing   a  slow  finger  at  the   minister's 

yellow  crop,    "'or    gold,   or    pearls '"     He 

stopped,  and  looked  over  the  rim  of  his  spec- 
tacles— they  all  looked — at  the  ring ! 


214  THE   RING 

"  Or  gold,"  repeated  Old  Piety,  "  or  pearls." 
He  nodded.  Every  man  in  the  little  conclave 
nodded.  Except  the  minister,  gazing  down  stead- 
fastly at  the  bunch  of  four  pearls  on  the  cheap 
little  ring. 

"  A  popish  emblem  !  "  For  the  Dutch  Calvinist 
sees  crosses  all  over  Christianity.  He  can't  help 
remembering  that  the  cross  was  set  up  as  an 
emblem,  when  the  wholesale  destruction  and 
slaughter  began.  If  his  religion  seem  unbeauti- 
ful,  remember  that  it  was  the  beautiful  religion 
which  built  up  for  him,  under  the  shadow  of 
every  parish  church,  the  unbeautiful — yet,  God  ! 
how  beautiful ! — rack,  scaffold,  and  stake. 

"  Paul  is  speaking  to  women,"  ventured, 
timidly,  Brother  Wilkey,  the  butcher,  whose  wife 
is  a  Pypers  of  the  other  side. 

The  sole  Pypers  "  of  the  one  side"  turned  on 
him: 

"He  never  dreamt  he'd  need  to  say  it  to  the 
1  men'  !"  cried  Old  Piety.  He  waited  a  moment 
for  his  words  to  sink.  "  Or  d'ye  mean  to  tell  me," 
he  continued  with  ineffable  scorn,  "  that  he  tells 
the  women  not  to  wear  jewels,  so  the  men  may 
put  them  on  ?" 

All  murmured  approval.  Not  one  of  them 
wore  "jewels."  Even  the  butcher  hastily  con- 
ceded to  his  neighbour,  that  "  Paul "  would  have 
objected  to  the  minister's  ring. 

The  minister  looked  up  at  his  terrible  grand- 
uncle.  "  When  the  prodigal  came  back,"  he  said, 
"  his  father  bade  them  bring  him  a  gold  ring " 


THE   RING  215 

"  I  wasn't  aware  you  was  a  prodigal,"  replied 
Old  Piety.  He  had  him  there :  they  separated 
on  that.  Poor  lamb,  better  not  try  to  tackle  Old 
Piety ! 

Every  one  in  the  parish  now  fully  understood. 
That  the  minister  must  appear  in  the  pulpit  the 
following  morning  without  that  ring  on  his  finger, 
or  Old  Piety  would  refuse  to  take  the  Sacrament 
from  his  hand.  And  if  Old  Piety  walked  from  the 
Communion  table,  not  an  elder  would  remain. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  the  old  man,  thinking 
the  matter  out,  between  the  slow  whiffs  of  his 
pipe,  beside  his  open  door.  The  spring  evening, 
of  rest  from  the  week's  long  labour,  lay,  peace- 
fully silvern,  on  all  the  calm  pasture  and  calmer 
sky.  Old  Piety  sat  listening,  in  repose,  to  the 
foolish  clamour  of  the  thrushes.  In  the  village 
also  there  was  plenty  of  chatter  and  empty  ex- 
pectancy that  night.  '■  'Tis  the  will  of  the  Lord," 
said,  reverently,  old  Hannes  Pypers. 

The  good-wife  at  the  window  sighed.  "  I 
wish  it  were  not  so,"  she  said. 

"  You  began  it ! "  he  burst  out,  so  vehemently, 
she  read  his  inner  vexation  in  his  tone. 

"  Not  intentionally,  father." 

He  always  shrank,  when  she  called  him 
"  father,"  the  bereaved  of  all  children  !  "  What's 
intentional  ?  "  he  questioned,  irritably.  "  We  say 
and  we  do  things,  and  they  work  out  wrong.  It 
was  you  told  me  of  the  neighbour's  children 
coming  home  from  Bible-class  and  saying  as  the 
minister  had  played  all  the  time  with  his  ring." 


216  THE   RING 

"  That  may  be  only  a  chemical  habit,"  said  the 
wife.     She  meant  "mechanical." 

"  Chemical  or  not,  there  wouldn't  be  any  habit, 
if  there  wasn't  any  ring.  It's  just  vanity  and 
foolishness.     Do  you  wear  a  ring  ?    Or  I  ?  " 

She  pointed  to  his  horny  finger — the  "gold 
finger  "  they  call  it. 

"  That's  different,"  he  said  very  hastily.  "  Paul 
couldn't  mean  a  betrothal  ring.     Mary !  " 

He  took  his  old  wife's  hand  and  held  it.  "  Not 
a  betrothal  ring!"  he  said.  "A  betrothal  ring 
isn't — a  ring." 

"  You're  sure  it's  not  the  minister's  betrothal 
ring  ?  "  said  the  mild  wife,  dubiously. 

"  As  sure  as  you  are.  Sure  and  certain.  With 
all  of  us  waiting  for  him  to  marry !  And  not  to 
remain  alone,  like  a  popish  priest.  As  isn't  good 
in  a  Christian  parish.  We  should  know  soon 
enough,  if  he  was  to  get  engaged." 

She  said  no  more.  Old  Piety  knew  best.  She 
sighed,  at  thought  of  to-morrow's  deserted  Com- 
munion table.  It  is  so  easy  to  start  a  religious 
wrangle  and  so  almost  impossible  to  stop  it. 

Yet  the  minister,  it  seems,  was  going  to  make 
a  last  attempt.  He  came  slowly  up  the  path,  in 
the  tranquil  sunset.  The  birds  shouted  to  wel- 
come him.  Old  Piety,  smoking  serenely,  with 
mixed  feelings,  watched  him  draw  near. 

"  Evening,  Dominie  !  " 

"  Evening — both ! "  Young  Pypers  got  out  of 
that  primal  embarrassment  better  than  he  had 
hoped. 


THE   RING  217 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  grand-uncle.  There  had 
been  a  considerable  wait  before  he  said  it.  The 
minister  had  declined  to  sit  down. 

"  You  will  come  to  the  Communion  to- 
morrow ?  "  blurted  out  the  parson.  "  I  have  come 
here  on  purpose  to  ask  you.  In  the  name  of 
peace — in  this  village—come !  " 

"I  am  wanting  to  come,"  replied  Old  Piety, 
"  but,  young  man,  I  daren't  receive  the  cup  from 
a  hand  that  disobeys  the  Word." 

"  I  can't  take  off  my  ring,"  persisted  the  young 
minister  eagerly,  "  won't  you  believe  me  ?  I 
can't.  I  have  promised  solemnly.  It  would  be 
wicked.     I  mustn't  break  my  word  ! " 

"  I  can't  mind  about  your  word.  It's  the  Word 
for  me,  Dominie." 

"  But  the  early  Christians  wore  rings.  James 
expressly  speaks  of  a  man  coming  into  their 
assemblies  with  a  gold  ring  on " 

"  Yes,"  retorted  the  elder  quickly,  "  and  he 
tells  them  not  to  give  him  a  foremost  place." 

Again  the  minister  felt  squashed.  But  a  Dutch 
minister  must  get  accustomed  to  that  feeling. 
He  said  mildly  :  "  I  want  you  to  take  my  word  for 
it,  that  it's  my  duty  to  go  on  wearing  that  ring." 

At  last  the  good  wife  looked  up  from  her 
knitting : 

"  Why  not  say  it's  your  engagement  ring  ?  " 
She  spoke  the  words  as  a  woman's  soft  heart 
speaks  them. 

"  Because  it  isn't ! "  cried  her  husband,  brush- 
ing her  aside,  his  sharp  eyes  on  the  young  man's 


218  THE  RING 

face.  "  Leave  us,  wife ! "  he  said,  and  motioned 
her  to  close  the  window.  "This  is  a  matter 
between  man  and  man." 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  he  continued : 
"  Young  man,  let  us  understand  each  other. 
You  are  not  betrothed." 

The  minister  hesitated.    "  No,"  he  said  softly. 

>?  I  knew  that.  Such  things  " — his  eyes  sank 
to  the  ring — "  are  not  kept  secret  without  good 
reason.  We  all,  here  in  Rondebak,  would  be 
glad  to  see  you  marry." 

The  minister  made  no  reply. 

"That  ring,  then,  to  which  you  cling  so 
unreasonably,  is  a  memory  of  youthful  folly. 
Hush!" — but  the  minister  had  not  stirred— "let 
an  old  man  speak  plainly!  I,  too,  have  been 
young,  long  ago.  At  your  age  I  knew  the  time 
had  come  to  leave  off.  And  I  had  not  the  care 
of  souls." 

Still  the  minister  was  silent :  his  silence 
irritated  the  elder. 

"  The  time  has  come  to  forget  student  flirta- 
tions, boy." — The  elder's  voice  grew  suddenly 
hard  :  his  pipe  sent  up  swift  blue  curls.  "  Get 
a  wife.  Are  these  thoughts  to  go  filling  a 
preacher's  mind,  while  he  catechises  the  school- 
children ?— twisting  his  ring  all  the  time  ?  What 
do  you  think  of,  minister" — he  faced  round — oh, 
the  stern  old  face  ! — "  while  you  preach  and 
finger  your  ring  ?  " 

The  young  clergyman  dropped  his  face  on 
his  hands. 


THE   RING  219 

"  You  see  that  I  knew,"  said  Old  Piety. 

The  minister  lifted  his  face.  "  How  much  do 
you  know  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"  Tut !  tut ! — enough.  Be  sure  your  sin  will 
find  you  out." 

"  You  know  nothing,"  said  the  minister. 

"  I  know  this,  that  you  cannot  remain  minister 
of  Rondebak  with  yon  memory  of  dead  folly  on 
your  finger.     Choose  !  " 

"Choose?"  repeated  the  minister,  white. 

"Yes,  I  see  clear.  Oh,  I  see  very  clear.  It 
is  not  a  little  matter.  It  is  the  weightiest  that 
has  ever  come  to  me,  since  I  became  an  elder. 
Your  dead  and  buried— no,  not  buried — flirtations 
to  rise  up  between  your  people  and  you ! " 

"  You  hate  me,  because  I  am  one  of  the  other 
Pyperses." 

"  The  Lord  forgive  you,  boy !  I  am  only 
doing  my  duty  by  the  flock  that  appointed  me 
to  watch  over  them  and  you."  There  was  a 
sincerity  in  the  old  man's  voice  which  suddenly 
touched  his  antagonist. 

"  Uncle — I  want  you  to  have  faith  in  me. 
It's  all  right." 

Old  Piety  shook  his  head.  "  Things  may  be 
right  enough  in  another  young  man,"  he  said, 
measuring  his  words,  "that  are  wrong  in  a 
minister.  Tell  me,  is  there  a  name  inside  that 
ring?'" 

"  There  is,"  said  Wim  Pypers  in  a  whisper. 

The  old  man  rose.  "  Dominie,"  he  said,  "  I 
don't  pry  into  your  secrets.     A  woman's  at  the 


220  THE  RING 

bottom  of  most  men's  ruin.  But  you're  not 
the  right  minister  for  Rondebak." 

The  nephew  had  risen  too.  He  stood  gazing 
at  old  Pypers  with  hollow  eyes.  Then  a  rush 
of  fire  filled  them.  "  You  believe  that  I— that 
she — that  she's  a  married  woman  or  engaged  to 
another  or — or  Heaven  knows  what  you  believe!  " 
he  cried.  He  drew  off  his  ring  and  held  it  out. 
"  You  shall  have  my  secret,"  he  said. 

With  automatic  curiosity  the  old  man  took 
the  little  gold  hoop  and  peered  into  its  inner 
circle.  "Everdine,"  he  spelled  under  the  long, 
still  shadows.  The  name  is  an  uncommon  one. 
He  looked  up,  vaguely  conscious  of  near  discom- 
fort. "  What  of  that  ?  "  he  said.  He  put  back 
the  ring.     "  I  want  to  hear  nothing  more." 

"  But  you  shall  here  more — much — all  1 "  cried 
the  minister.  "You  have  bidden  me  choose — 
choose — between  my  life-task,  my  dear  work,  my 
mother,  my  honour,  my,  my  everything  and  your 
— piety  !  I  choose.  I  choose !  "  He  checked  him- 
self. "  Nay,  give  me  back  the  ring  and  leave  me 
in  peace,"  he  said. 

"Who  was  this  Everdine?"  the  old  man 
made  answer.  The  minister,  gazing  straight  at 
his  hatchet-face,  saw  no  sign  of  relenting. 

"  She  was  your  Everdine,"  said  the  minister 
desperately.  "  Your  grandchild.  She  loved  me, 
and  I  loved  her,  and  we  knew  it  was  a  useless, 
hopeless  love.  We  kept  it  to  ourselves,  in  a  few 
hurried,  secret  snatches.  "  '  Grandfather  would 
never  forgive  me,'  was  what  she  always  said." 


THE  RING  221 

"  Grandfather  would  never — my  Everdine  ! " 
Stammering,  staggering,  the  old  man  sank  upon 
the  seat.  He  stared  dimly  at  young  Wim  Pypers. 
"  Everdine — kept  this  secret  ? — died  with  it  ? — 
loved?" 

"  It  was  the  one  brightness  of  her  life,"  said 
the  minister  tenderly  and  brutally.  "  After  her 
brother  went  to  sea.  But  she  knew  it  was 
hopeless.  '  His  heart  is  full  of  hate ! '  she  always 
said.  It  would  kill  her  to  speak  of  her  love  to 
you.     It  killed  her  not  to." 

"Loved,"  repeated  the  old  man  on  the  seat, 
staring  in  front  of  him,  stunned.  "  Loved  and 
never  told  us.  Loved  .  .  .  you ! "  That  was  a 
new  thought.  "  And  bought  you,  and  gave  you 
— the  ring."  It  dropped  from  his  fingers,  the  poor 
little  jewel.  The  minister  snatched  it  up,  stood 
rubbing  it  gently  on  his  sleeve. 

"She  gave  it  me,"  he  said,  "when  she  kne — 
knew " — his  voice  gave  way  :  he  struggled  on. 
"  She  had  got  away  to  buy  it  at  the  fair.  She 
put  it  on  and  she  made  me  promise  to  wear  it, 

always,    even    if — if "      He    broke    down 

miserably.  After  some  time  he  added  :  "  It  was 
like  her  to  think  of  that,  in  her  unselfishness. 
We  were  a  pair  of  children.  And  she  was  the 
better  child  of  the  two." 

"  You  will  marry  in  time,"  said  the  old  man. 
"And  never  told  us.  Us  that  had  brought  her 
up  from  her  babyhood."  The  pipe  slipped  from 
his  hand. 

"  She  was  afraid  of  you — oh,  so  afraid  !    And 


222  THE   RING 

she  said  it  was  quite  useless.  She  knew  how 
you  hated  us  all." 

The  old  man  broke  out  at  him.  "  I  hated 
no  one.  You  have  robbed  me  of  my  money. 
And  my  child ! " 

The  young  minister  shook  his  head  sadly. 
"  She  was  afraid/'  he  said,  "  she  was  always 
afraid  of  you.  '  It  would  kill  me  to  tell  grand- 
father :  he  would  never  forgive  me  for  loving  one 
of  the  other  Pyperses.'  That  was  what  she 
always  said.  And  then  death  came  and  ended 
it  all." 

Old  Piety  sat  staring  at  the  solemn  landscape. 
The  evening  deepened.  The  birds  were  silent. 
He  made  no  answer,  no  answer  at  all. 

"You  will  let  me  keep  the  ring,"  said  the 
minister,  almost  pleadingly.  He  replaced  it  on 
his  finger.  No  answer  but  a  groan.  "  We  will 
tell  them  I  have  explained  it  all  to  you.  Nobody 
shall  know.  We  need  not  say  anything  about 
your  having  mis — been  mistaken." 

Old  Piety  shivered  down  into  a  corner  of  the 
seat.  "  I — /  was  mistaken,"  he  said,  "  /  was 
mistaken."  He  said  it,  he  who  had  never  been 
mistaken  in  his  life. 

11  Uncle,"  began  the  young  minister  faintly, 
"she  loved  you.  Only,  she  didn't  understand 
about  your  love  for  her.  And,  perhaps,  now, 
if  you  and  I  try  to  understand  each  other " 

The  old  man  interrupted  him  :  "  Love  under- 
stands," said  Old  Piety.  u  I  was  mistaken.  Had 
I  loved  her,  would  she  ever — would  you — boy ! 


THE   RING  223 

— Dominie! — though  I — though  I— how  does  it 
go,  boy  ? — and  have  not  love ! — go  preach  that  in 
Rondebak !  Preach  it  with  a  ring  on  your  finger 
or  without !  She  never  dared  to  tell  us  !  Preach 
it  to-morrow !  I'll  tell  them  I'll  need  to  have  it 
preached  a  many  a  time  to  me  !  " 


THE   STORY  OF  THE  GREAT 
HAIL-GAMBLE 


B 


UT,  uncle- 


The  fat  old  priest  stopped  his  comfort- 
able roll.  He  wiped  his  red  face  in  the  blazing 
July  sun,  and  he  held  up  a  protesting  hand — fat 
— with  a  damp  handkerchief. 

"  No,  Steven/'  he  said,  "  I  cannot  help  you. 
I  will  not  deny  that  I  am  possessed  of  some 
small  earthly  means,  but  I  am  not  at  liberty,  if 
I  would,  to  dispose  of  these  in  your  favour." 

The  young  nephew  looked  at  the  old  uncle 
— at  the  latter's  round  paunch  and  rubicund 
countenance. 

"  You  are  probably  thinking,"  said  the  uncle, 
resuming  his  walk,  "  of  the  legacy  left  me  by  that 
venerable  spinster " 

"  Well,  I  was,"  interrupted  the  nephew. 

"  She  left  it  me  on  the  distinct  understanding 
that  I  was  to  devote  its  revenues  during  my  life, 
and  afterwards,  to  the  good  of  the  Church." 

"  O—o— oh  !  "  said  Steven. 

There  were  all  sorts  of  sentiments  in  that 
"  oh."  He  was  in  love ;  he  was  desperate ;  he 
had  never  been  afraid  of  his  uncle.     He  had  seen 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     225 

him  influenced  by  his  second  bottle  of  Burgundy 
too  frequently  for  that. 

"You  must  leave  me  to  decide,  if  you  please," 
said  the  old  man  sharply ;  "  what  is  for  the  good 
of  the  Church  and  what  is  not.  In  this  village 
the  conservation  of  my  health  is  more  for  the 
good  of  the  Church  than  anything  I  could  devise. 
Therefore  I  have  built  a  good  house  for  myself, 
and — and — I  admit  it—stocked  a  good  cellar." 

"And  engaged — I  am  glad  to  say — a  good 
cook." 

"You  are  insolent  beyond  belief.  But,  how- 
ever insolent  you  may  be,  it  is  not  necessary  for 
the  welfare  of  the  Church  that  I  bestow  on  you 
the  money  Farmer  Stoppel  now  demands,  at  the 
last  moment,  before  he  will  let  you  marry  his 
daughter." 

"  I  only  meant,"  said  Steven  more  humbly, 
"that  there  was  nothing  about  'the  good  of  the 
Church  '  in  the  will." 

"  Did  you,  perhaps,  hear  the  estimable  lady's 
dying  injunctions  ?  I  trow  not.  I  am  ashamed 
of  you,  Steven,  my  own  brother's  son.  This 
greed  of  the  world's  goods  will  work  your  ruin." 

"  I  want  to  marry  Maaiken ;  I  love  her,"  said 
Steven. 

"The  desire,  in  itself,  is  not  blameworthy, 
and  her  father  has  enough  for  you  both." 

"  But  it  is  only  natural,  uncle,  that  he  should 
want  me  to  pay  part  of  the  tavern  he  is  getting 
for  us.    The  price  is  a  good  deal  more  than  he 
had  expected." 
Q 


226     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

Again  the  uncle  held  up  the  hot  hand  and  the 
damp  handkerchief. 

" Peace!  And  so  /  am  to  pay  the  two 
thousand  guilders  he  asks!  No,  my  son.  He 
should  have  thought  of  it  sooner.  To-morrow 
morning  we  sign  the  contract,  and  I  give  you 
my  blessing  and  the  two  pewter  pots." 

"  He  says  he  won't  sign." 

The  priest  smiled.     "  He  will." 

"  The  pots  are  my  own  by  my  grandfather's 
will." 

"He  was  a  wonderfully  perspicacious  old 
man.  It  looks  as  if  he  had  foreseen  that  you 
would  one  day  keep  a  tavern." 

The  good  father  stood  by  his  little  garden 
gate.  Along  the  trim  path  were  some  bright 
old-fashioned  flowers  for  ornament,  and  behind 
them  far  more  numerous  vegetables  for  use. 
The  evening  sky  was  beautiful  with  the  lessen- 
ing heat  of  the  cloudless  day.  All  about,  on  the 
gentle  slopes,  spread  the  wide  glory  of  the  barley 
harvest. 

Baas  Stoppel  came  by,  the  rich  farmer,  with 
his  stupid  cow-face  and  his  rows  of  metal  buttons. 
He  came  by  intentionally.     So  he  stopped. 

"  Good  evening,  Stoppel,"  said  Father  Bullebak 
pleasantly. 

The  other  grumbled  a  "  good  evening,"  but  he 
touched  the  sort  of  black  nightcap  he  wore. 

"  An  important  ceremony  to-morrow  morning, 
Stoppel.  We  shall  take  care  to  be  with  you  in 
good  time." 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     227 

"I  hope  you've  considered  about  that  two 
thousand,  father.  It  isn't  fair  that  it  should  all 
come  from  me." 

"  Tut,  tut,  my  son !  Your  goods  are  your 
own,  and  mine  are  our  mother's.  Such  little 
possessions  as  I  have." 

"  'Tisn't  fair,"  repeated  the  peasant,  chewing 
his  pipe. 

The  father  looked  at  the  other's  face.  "  You 
have  my  last  word,"  he  said  sharply;  and  he 
turned  away,  and  walked  majestically  down  his 
path,  evincing  great,  but  not  unusual,  interest 
in  his  salads. 

The  farmer  was  left  in  sullen  contemplation 
of  his  prospective  son-in-law.  That  hapless 
youth  forced  a  sickly  smile. 

«E) an    priests!"    burst    out    Stoppel 

suddenly.    "The  holy  Virgin  forgive  me!     If 

'twasn't  they  can  d us,  Lord,  how  we'd  d 

them!" 

Having  given  utterance  to  which  vigorous 
sentiment,  he  too  turned  on  his  heel.  The  young 
man,  left  standing  alone,  heaved  a  sigh. 

In  the  house  the  father  found  an  old  acquaint- 
ance waiting  for  him — Brother  Ambrosius  (in 
the  world  Janus  Dorstig),  the  Prior  or  clerical 
director  of  the  big  ecclesiastical  brewery  away 
over  the  German  frontier. 

H  Aha  I "  he  said  ;  "  the  barley  brings  you, 
I  suppose?" 

"  Of  course  it  does.  I  hope  the  price  isn't 
high  this  year?" 


228     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

"Let's  sit  down  and  talk  it  over,"  said 
Bullebak. 

He  sank  into  his  armchair,  and  called  for  a 
bottle — not  of  beer. 

"  You  haven't  talked  about  the  price  yet  ?  "  he 
said,  sipping  his  glass. 

"  No,"  replied  the  other,  who  was  also  round 
and  rubicund,  but  smaller,  sipping  his. 

"  It's  a  fine  year.  Weather  perfect  still,  and 
the  fields  ripe." 

"  I  saw  them  coming  along.     First  rate." 

"All  you  passed  were  Farmer  Stoppel's.  He 
grows  all  the  barley  in  these  parts." 

"  I  must  get  at  him.  It's  my  first  season  as 
director.  I'm  especially  anxious  to  make  a  good 
bargain.    You  must  help  me,  Bullebak." 

"Why  must  I  help  you?" 

The  two  looked  at  each  other.  "  On  behalf 
of  the  Church "  began  Brother  Ambrosius. 

"Twenty  per  cent,  on  your  profits,"  said 
Bullebak,  and  refilled  the  other's  glass. 

"  Twenty  per  cent,  on  my ?  " 

"  Yes.  We  can  all  see  you  are  green  in  these 
sort    of  transactions,  brother.      The    reverend 

fathers  might  have  selected there  ! — there  ! 

Twenty  per  cent,  on  whatever  he  drops  off  his 
original  price.  For— for  the  Church,  as  you  say 
— in  this  village.     For  my  poor." 

"  Ah,  well — your  poor  ! " 

"There  are  many  of  us,"  said  the  father, 
looking  round  his  comfortable  room.  Thought- 
fully he  replenished  his  glass. 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     229 

"It  is  all  a  gamble,  as  you  know,"  he  said. 
"  It  depends  on  the  weather  till  the  last.  If  a 
bad  thunderstorm  were  to  burst  over  the  place 
within  forty-eight  hours  of  now — holy  Virgin  ! " 
— he  threw  up  his  hands — "  whatever  price  you 
paid  would  be  too  much." 

"I  should  get  it  all  in  immediately  after 
purchasing." 

"Of  course.  The  whole  village  reckons  on 
that.     'Tis  a  gamble." 

The  clerical  brewer  sat  musing.  "  If  only  one 
could  be  sure,1  he  said. 

"Yes,  indeed !  But  one  can't.  The  next  best 
thing  is  for  the  peasants  to  think  one  can  be  sure." 
He  grinned  quietly  over  all  his  fat,  double- 
chinned  face. 

H  But,  stupid  as  they  are,  one  can  hardly 
manage  that." 

The  village  priest  patted  his  much-besmeared 
waistcoat.  He  lifted  his  long  black  coat  over  his 
knickerbocker  knees.  "  I  have  managed  it,"  he 
said,  pompously. 

"How?" 

"  My  dear  brother,  that  is  my  secret." 

"  Tell  me." 

"Will  you  send  me  a  cask  of  your  next 
brew?" 

"  It  is  not  mine  to  give  away.  But  I'll  arrange 
about  it,  if  you  help  me  with  this  Stoppel." 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you,  for  we  should  have  no 
secrets  from  each  other  and  all  from  outsiders. 
Besides,  I   have  already  told  our  dear  bishop. 


230     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

Foolishly,  perhaps,  warmed  by  his  excellent 
claret ;  but  it  all  turned  out  well,  for  he  was  so 
pleased  with  my  influence  over  the  people  that 
he  got  me  this."  He  fingered  a  small  cross  at  his 
bosom,  which  the  other  man  watched  with  greedy 
eyes.  Ui  Influence,'  said  Monseigneur  —  'in- 
fluence, in  season  and  out  of  season.'  *  Especially 
in  the  barley  season,'  said  I.  You  see,  we  are  very 
peculiarly  situated  here.  Somehow,  in  our  dip 
behind  the  hills,  we  seem  to  attract  the  thunder- 
storms. And  with  us,  more  than  in  any  other 
part  I  ever  saw,  the  thunderstorms  seem  to  bring 
hail.  It  isn't  the  rain  that  matters,  as  you  know, 
it's  the  hail.  During  these  few  days  of  ripe 
harvest  our  peasants  live,  when  the  weather  has 
reached  this  white  heat,  in  hourly  dread  of  a  hail- 
storm, such  as  we  had  five  years  ago.  We  have 
not  yet  forgotten  that.     It  nearly  ruined  us." 

"I  remember  hearing  about  it,"  said  the 
brother.     "  Why  don't  they  insure  ?  " 

"  They  say  they  think  it's  wrong — distrusting 
the  blessed  saints;  but,  in  reality,  they  grudge 
the  money.  They  prefer  to  run  the  risk.  And 
they  come  to  me  all  day  long  at  this  time  to 
inquire  what  I  think  of  the  weather." 

"  But  you  can't  influence  the  weather." 

Father  Bullebak  smiled.  "  Your  faith  is  not 
great,  brother,"  he  said.  "  Fortunately  theirs  is 
greater.  If  I  tell  them  "Tis  about  to  rain,  for 
your  sins,'  they  howl  out  some  sort  of  repent- 
ance. This  is  my  time  for  getting  in  my — my 
small  contributions." 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     231 

"  But  you  must  constantly  be  wrong." 

Again  the  fat  father  smiled.  "  Not  as  often  as 
you  think."  He  got  up  and  moved  across  to  a 
dark  corner  of  his  room.  "This,"  he  said,  with 
a  certain  solemnity,  "  is  my  oracle ! "  And  he 
showed,  up  against  a  bookcase,  a  barometer. 
"  The  best  to  be  procured  for  money,"  he  said ; 
"  as  accurate  as  they  make  them.  As  soon  as  I 
saw  how  the— the  wind  lay  in  this  parish,  I  had 
it  out  from  Paris.  Barometers  of  any  kind  are 
unknown  among  the  peasantry  :  if  they  heard  of 
them  they  would  only  call  them  '  superstitions,' 
a  word  they  are  fond  of  for  any  scientific  thing 
they  don't  understand.  Some  of  the  older  ones 
still  call  the  telegraph  a  '  supersition.'  So  you 
see,  I  always  know  what  the  weather  is  going  to 
be  some  twelve  to  twenty  hours  before  them." 

"But  they  have  their  own  signs,"  said  the 
brother,  open-mouthed. 

"No.  Only  mountaineers  and  sea-folk  have 
those.  The  ordinary  peasant  is  absolutely  igno- 
rant or  invariably  wrong  about  weather-forecasts." 

"  You  amaze  me,"  said  Brother  Ambrosius. 

"Never  be  amazed,  brother.  It  is  a  bad 
habit  for  a  priest.  True,  I  am  older  than  you  :  I 
have  long  ago  given  it  up."  He  struck  a  match 
in  the  falling  shadows,  and  examined  his  instru- 
ment. "As  high  as  it  can  go,"  he  said.  "Set 
fair."  There  was  a  pause.  "  Now,  if  I  frighten 
Stoppel  with  a  threat  of  a  thunderstorm  in  this 
heat,  you — you  will  be  able  to  brew  cheaper 
beer,  brother." 


232     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

"The  price  will  be  the  same,"  said  Ambrosius, 
with  a  grin. 

"  So  much  the  better  for  the  Church;  brother. 
Twenty  per  cent,  is  very  little.  We  ought  to  go 
halves." 

"  Impossible.  The  bishop  would  never  allow 
it!" 

"  Well;  well ! "  The  father  heaved  a  big  sigh. 
"  A  quarter  of  what  he  lets  fall,  if  I  frighten  him 
very  thoroughly." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it  done,"  said  Ambrosius. 

"You  doubt  my  power?"  His  eyes  flashed. 
"  Dear  brother,  you  have  little  experience,  I  pre- 
sume, of  our  peasants  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  town-bred  man,"  said  Ambrosius. 

A  letter  was  sent  off  to  Stoppel  instanter, 
asking  him  whether  he  could  receive  the  Brother 
Brewer-master  that  night,  to  treat  of  a  large 
purchase  of  barley  for  the  monastery  of  Simpel- 
velden.  "To-morrow  at  eleven,"  said  Father 
Bullebak,  "we  draw  up  the  marriage  settlement, 
at  his  house,  between  my  good-for-nothing 
nephew  and  Stoppel's  pretty  daughter.  The 
man  is  very  contrary.  He  wants  me— ridiculous  ! 
— to  give  a  marriage  portion  to  my  dead  brother's 
son. 

"Absurd  indeed,"  replied  Ambrosius.  "I 
am  sorry  you  should  have  a  good-for-nothing 
nephew." 

"  He  must  be  good  for  nothing,  for  he  refuses 
to  confess  to  me."  The  brother  looked  at  the 
father.    "  Shall  we  finish  the  bottle  ?  "  suggested 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE      233 

the  good  old  priest.  They  finished  it.  It  was 
past  nine  before  a  reply  came  from  Stoppel  that 
he  had  gone  to  bed,  but  would  be  at  the  parson- 
age house  in  the  morning. 

When  he  arrived,  in  the  full  glow  of  the 
cloudless  sunshine,  he  heard  from  the  pleasant 
cook  that  their  reverences  were  at  mass.  "  H'm, 
h'm !  I  half  thought  I  might  be  too  early,"  mur- 
mured Stoppel.  "  There's  no  objection,  I  sup- 
pose, to  my  waiting  in  his  reverence's  room  ?  " 

"Oh,  come  in,  by  all  means,  Boer,"  said 
the  cook.  "And  pray,  how  is  the  charming 
bride?" 

The  bride,  it  appears,  was  well. 

u  But  what  heat ! "  said  Stoppel,  as  he  entered 
the  cool  study.  "I  only  hope  it  won't  turn 
thundery." 

"  I  hope  not  indeed,"  said  the  comely  cook. 

Left  to  himself,  Boer  Stoppel  first  recovered 
from  his  walk.  Then  he  made  a  tour  of  inspec- 
tion round  the  room,  and  was  greatly  interested 
in  some  of  its  contents.  Soon  after  he  had  sat 
down  again,  with  no  expression  at  all  on  his 
stolid  face,  the  two  clerical  gentlemen  entered. 

"  Oh,  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,"  began 
Bullebak,  "  but  the  Church " 

"I  knew  I  was  a  bit  early.  I  expected  to 
wait  here  a  bit,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  Brother  Ambrosius  here,  the  Brother 
Brewer-master  of  the  good  brothers  of  Simpel- 
velden,  would  like  to  buy  as  much  of  his  barley 
as  he  can  from  a  good  Catholic  like  you." 


234      STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

The  farmer  did  obeisance  to  Brother  Am- 
brosius.    "Yes,  I'm  a  good  Catholic,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  the  brother. 
"  Is  the  barley  good  ?  " 

"  Your  reverence  had  better  come  and 
see  it." 

"  Not  so  fast !  "  Ambrosius  sat  down,  and  an 
endless  negotiation  commenced,  with  all  the  ins 
and  outs  and  ups  and  downs  of  peasant  intrigue 
in  matters  of  business.  "  Yes,  it  is  worth  at 
least  four  thousand,"  Stoppel  repeated,  when  at 
last  they  had  got  so  far  that  he  could  make  such 
a  statement  without  protest.  Each  of  them  had 
consumed  two  glasses  of  corn-brandy  before 
they  reached  this  point.  There  was  a  distinct 
satisfaction  in  having  attained  a  fresh  stage,  and 
therefore  Stoppel  said  his  sentence  again. 

"Possibly.  But  there  is  always  the  risk, 
with  such  weather  as  this,  of  a  violent  thunder- 
storm before  the  day  is  out." 

"  You  must  harvest  at  once,"  replied  Stoppel. 

"  I  should  certainly  do  so.  But  a  hailstorm, 
such  as  you  often  have  here,  is  the  affair  of  half 
an  hour." 

"  Five  minutes,"  said  Bullebak,  thinking  what 
a  fool  dear  Brother  Ambrosius  was.  Stoppel 
scowled  at  his  parish  priest  covertly.  The  latter, 
who  had  been  standing  by  the  bookcase,  came 
hastily  forward. 

"Five  minutes!"  he  repeated,  in  some  per- 
turbation. "Whereby  I  mean,  dear  brother, 
could  you  spare  me  five  minutes  in  the  next 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE      2S5 

room?  Only  five  minutes.  My  good  Stoppel, 
excuse  us  !  The — the  affairs  of  the  Church,  you 
know " 

The  two  black  figures  disappeared  through 
the  doorway.  Stoppel  poured  himself  out  a 
third  glass  of  corn-brandy.  There  was  no  ex- 
pression at  all  on  his  face. 

"  My  good  Ambrosius ! "  hissed  the  father, 
"  the  barometer  is  down  into  the  lowest  depths. 
I  have  never  seen  it  so  bad.  Such  a  sudden  fall 
can  mean  nothing  but  a  violent  storm  before  the 
day  is  out !  It's  terrific.  And  the  thunder  is 
absolutely  certain  to  bring  hail !  " 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me,  father.  Then  I 
won't  buy." 

"  Nonsense.  Hail  isn't  nearly  so  bad  for 
you,  once  you've  bought,  for  your  beer,  as  it  is 
for  him,  if  wanting  to  sell.  Offer  him  four 
thousand  if  the  weather  remains  fine,  and  three 
thousand  if  it  rains  before  to-morrow  night." 

"But    I    don't    like "     pleaded    Brother 

Ambrosius. 

"  I  tell  you  it's  a  gamble.  He'll  like  that. 
They  all  like  a  gamble.  And  you'll  get  your 
barley  cheap."  He  almost  pushed  the  Brother- 
Brewer  into  the  other  room.  "Now  settle  your 
business  together !  "  he  said. 

"  The  risk  is  too  great,"  declared  Ambrosius 
to  Stoppel.  "I  daren't  take  it:  the  sum  is  too 
large.  Let  us  say  four  thousand  if  the  weather 
remains  fine,  but  three  thousand  if  we  have  a 
thunderstorm  before  to-morrow  night." 


236      STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

The  farmer  looked  out  at  the  clear,  hot  sky. 
"  A  hailstorm,"  he  said. 

Brother  Ambrosius  and  Father  Bullebak 
exchanged  a  wink.  "  So  be  it,  a  hailstorm,"  said 
the  brother. 

After  a  great  deal  more  talk,  the  affair  seemed 
nearly  settled,  when  the  farmer  cried :  "  Hold ! 
'Tis  not  fair  that  all  the  risk  should  be  on  my 
side,  and  all  the  chance  of  profit  on  yours  !  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  good  Catholic,"  said 
Ambrosius. 

"So  I  am,  but  if  the  weather  remains  fair 
till  you've  done,  I  must  have  five  thousand. 
That's  an  honest  bargain.  The  other's  lop- 
sided." 

Again  the  two  ecclesiastics  looked  at  each 
other.  There  was  some  more  discussion,  and 
another  glass  of  brandy  was  consumed. — "  Oh, 
do  it,  by  all  means,"  decided  Bullebak,  and  he 
laughed  confidently.  Thus  the  matter  was  finally 
arranged,  and  Stoppel  put  a  few  words  upon 
paper,  so  that  there  might  be  no  misunder- 
standings, he  said. 

Thereupon  Beldebel  was  introduced — the 
sexton,  gravedigger,  communal  crier,  barber,  and 
servant  to  the  priest.  He  was  ordered  to  fetch, 
at  once,  his  big  bell,  and  to  hurry  to  the  market- 
place and  through  all  the  country-side,  summon- 
ing the  whole  population  to  come  and  reap  the 
barley  fields.  The  school  was  given  a  holiday, 
that  the  children  might  bind  the  sheaves.  And 
all  for  the  good  of  Mother  Church  and  the  beer 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     237 

of  the  pious  fathers  of  Simpelvelden.  "You'll 
get  it  in  before  nightfall/'  said  Bullebak. 

"  Impossible  ! "  cried  Ambrosius. 

The  priest  smiled  his  smile.  "You  don't 
know  what  I  promise  them/'  he  answered. 

When  all  this  had  been  settled,  and  the 
labourers  had  been  started  in  the  outlying 
parishes  (where  a  couple  of  men  were  sent  on 
bicycles),  the  time  had  come  for  the  signature  of 
the  marriage  contract.  In  these  parts  that  for- 
mality is  not  in  itself  an  occasion  for  festivities : 
it  is  the  signal  that  the  bridal  celebrations  (which 
last,  more  or  less,  a  fortnight)  may  begin.  The 
notary  and  a  couple  of  clerks  were  waiting  at 
Stoppel's  farmhouse,  when  the  three  speculators 
arrived.  That  he  came  there,  instead  of  the 
parties  calling  on  him,  was  a  sure  proof  of  the 
social  importance  and  actual  wealth  of  the  bride's 
father.  That  neither  the  priest  nor  the  father 
had  alluded  in  any  way,  during  their  walk,  to 
the  matter  regarding  which  they  were  at  variance, 
may  be  taken  as  characteristic  of  the  peasant 
class,  to  which  both  of  them  belonged. 

The  women,  the  substantial,  grave-looking 
mother,  and  the  pretty  girl — had  donned  their 
best  clothes.  The  men  were  as  usual.  The 
notary  had  put  on  his  seriously  smiling  face; 
but  then,  that  was  one  of  his  usual  three 
faces. 

The  whole  party  ranged  themselves  in  a  half- 
circle :  the  bride  with  her  parents  beside  her, 
the  bridegroom  flanked  by  his  uncle,  and  Brother 


c>88     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

Ambrosius  as  a  superfluous  but  highly  honoured 
guest.  The  notary,  whose  name  was  Kladdeboel, 
sat  down  to  a  green  table-cloth  and  a  couple  of 
blue  documents,  and  hemmed  and  hawed.  Then 
he  asked  for  ink,  which  was  given  him ;  though 
Vrouw  Stoppel  disapproved  of  ink  anywhere,  on 
principle,  as  representative,  in  her  mind,  only  of 
blots,  or  of  something  that  somebody  ought 
never  to  have  signed. 

The  notary  then  proceeded  to  read  the  settle- 
ment. He  was  old  and  blind,  and  had  been 
incapacitated  for  years ;  but  Bullebak  had  main- 
tained him  in  his  position,  in  spite  of  the  occa- 
sional timid  protests  of  the  Burgomaster,  because 
Kladdeboel  made  such  estimable  suggestions  to 
the  old  people  who  talked  to  him  about  their 
wills.  "A  very  worthy  and  deserving  public 
officer,  Monseigneur,"  said  Bullebak  at  head- 
quarters, "  a  supporter  to  be  grateful  for  in  these 
days  of  indifference  and  irreligion."  So  the 
notary  stumbled  through  his  official  documents, 
and  his  clerk  helped  him  on,  with  a  push  to  the 
right  or  the  left,  as  he  lurched,  like  a  drunken 
man,  among  his  names  and  his  dates  and  the 
cumbersome  legal  phrases. 

"The  aforesaid  Maaiken  Stoppel,  Bride  of 
Heaven "  he  read. 

"  Steven,  Steven,"  said  the  clerk. 

"  Bride  of  Steven."  The  notary's  nose  sank 
among  his  rustling  papers. 

The  correction  had  caused  him  to  lose  the 
place.    The  clerk  got  up  and  found  it  for  him. 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     239 

Not  recognising  it,  he  scolded  his  patient  servitor 
for  trying  to  make  him  skip  an  important  bit. 
"  Which  would  have  made  the  whole  act  invalid," 
he  said  testily.  "  How  can  you  be  so  careless, 
Drabbelkoek !     I  must  go  back." 

"  Always  so  conscientious,"  said  the  priest  in 
a  loud  voice. 

"The  aforesaid   Madam    Stoppel "    read 

the  fumbling  notary. 

For  a  moment  the  clerk,  after  his  rebuff,  did 
not  dare  to  suggest  an  alteration. 

The  notary,  having  dropped  and  recovered 
his  eyeglasses,  recommenced:  "The  aforesaid 
Madam  Stoppel,  bride  of  Steven " 

"  Excuse  me — no ! "  said  the  Vrouw. 

"Eh? — ah?"  queried  Kladdeboel,  peering 
over  his  papers. 

"I've  been  a  bride  once,"  said  the  Vrouw, 
with  great  decision,  "  and  I  don't  want  to  be  one 
ever  again." 

"  Glad  you're  so  anxious  to  keep  me,"  put  in 
the  sardonic  farmer. 

"  I  didn't  say  that,"  replied  the  Vrouw. 

The  clerk  and  the  priest,  meanwhile,  had 
picked  up  the  notary,  who  started  off  again  with 
"  Hermann  Stoppel  will  marry  his  wife." 

"  With  Mary  his  wife,"  gently  suggested  the 
patient  Drabbelkoek. 

They  got  to  the  end  somehow.  The  notary 
laid  down  his  papers,  took  up  the  pen  and 
dropped  a  blot. 

"Ah!"  squeaked  Vrouw  Stoppel,  as  it  fell. 


240     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

"Oh,  no  matter,  no  matter,"  she  added  hastily. 
"  It's  on  the  papers." 

The  notary  stared  indignantly  at  her.  Then 
he  turned,  still  more  indignantly,  on  his  clerk. 
"  Why,  there's  ink  in  it ! "  he  cried. 

The  clerk  apologised  for  the  pen.  And  yet 
such  is  the  habit  of  pens,  when  emerging  from 
an  inkstand. 

The  notary  looked  hastily  for  blotting-paper, 
and  smeared  his  sleeve  all  across  the  document 
in  doing  so.  "  You  never  put  anything  where  I 
can  find  it,"  he  said.  "  It's  really  a  mercy,  with 
such  a  clerk  as  you,  that  my  eyesight  remains  so 
good.  Dear,  dear  me ! "  He  surveyed  the  havoc 
he  had  made. 

Steven,  who  had  come  nearer,  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. "Oh,  I  say,"  he  cried,  "you've  wiped  out 
the  2 !  It  reads  twenty  thousand  guilders — look 
here,  Stoppel — instead  of  twenty-two  ! " 

The  old  notary,  turning  to  snatch  at  the  docu- 
ment, upset  the  entire  inkstand.  The  vrouw 
rushed,  screaming — the  green  cloth  being  lost 
anyway — to  the  rescue  of  her  carpet;  and  in 
the  general  scrimmage  and  cackle  that  ensued 
Kladdeboel  was  heard  protesting  that  it  was  all 
Steven's  or  else  Drabbelkoek's  fault. 

When  order  was  at  last  restored,  Boer  Stoppel 
was  discovered  placid  in  his  arm-chair,  not  having 
made  a  movement  or  spoken  a  word.  Now,  in 
the  lull  of  expectancy,  he  opened  his  lips.  "  It's 
quite  right,"  he  said, — "  quite  right.  I  meant  him 
to  strike  out  the  2." 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     241 

"  You  never  told  me  a  word  about  it,"  exclaimed 
the  much  ruffled  notary. 

"  Well,  then,  it  was  Providence,"  replied  the 
shameless  Stoppel.  "  Lord,  yes,  it  must  have 
been  Providence.  Take  out  that  2,  it  says,  and 
put  in  the  lad's  uncle.  Put  him  in  for  two 
thousand,  it  says." 

"  So  it  was  Providence  upset  the  inkstand !  " 
cried  Steven. 

"  It  certainly  wasn't  me ! "  explained  the  notary. 

"  Providence  couldn't  do  such  a  wicked  thing," 
exclaimed  the  farm-wife,  her  eyes  on  the  green 
table-cloth. 

The  good  priest  had  risen.  He  swept  his  arm 
over  the  whole  lot  of  them.  "  Peace ! "  he  said. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  head  of  the  house. 
"  Stoppel,"  he  said  sternly,  "  this  is  unseemly 
fooling.  We  have  no  time  to  lose.  We  are 
anxious  to  get  back  to  the  barley-fields." 

"  Yes,  your  reverence,"  answered  Stoppel,  "  so 
am  I.  ft  It's  important  that  we  should  hurry  on  the 
work,  though  the  sky  seems  set  fair.  But  there's 
no  knowing.     And  they  won't  get  ready  to-day." 

"  Then  let's  sign  and  have  done  with  it." 

Stoppel  dropped  his  heavy  eyebrows  over  his 
half-frightened  eyes. 

"  I  won't  sign,"  he  said  doggedly,  "  unless  you 
put  in  that  two  thousand.  Only  two— and  I'm 
giving  twenty.  Providence  itself  says  it  isn't 
fair." 

"  How  dare  you,  a  sinner,  mention  Provi- 
dence ! " 


242     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

"  I  won't  sign,"  shouted  Stoppel. 
"  Is  this  your  last  word  ?  " 
Stoppel  almost  whispered  :  "Yes." 
His  daughter  began  to  cry.    The  priest  stood 
forth  splendid. 

*  Unhappy  man  !  "  he  thundered.  "  Your  love 
of  lucre  will  be  your  bane !  For  a  paltry  two 
thousand  you  resist  the  command  of  your  Church. 
You  jeopardise  your  soul  for  a  trifle — for  gold 
that  is  dross.  What  prevents  me? — but  I  will 
give  you  one  more  chance." 

*  Oh,  do,  father  ! "  wailed  the  woman. 
"Tisn't    fair,"    muttered    Stoppel.     "No,   I 

won't." 

"  Then  your  ruin  be  upon  your  own  head ! 
You  thought  to  gain  a  thousand  florins  from  this 
reverend  brother !  Even  the  Church  was  not  safe 
from  your  extortions  !  You  shall  not  gain  them, 
neither  from  him  nor  from  me  !  On  the  contrary, 
you  shall  lose  two !  The  Church  herself  shall 
show  you  her  irresistible  power  !    Oh,  Saint — oh, 

Saint "     He  stopped  :  his  face  grew  purple — 

he  bent  anxiously  over  Brother  Ambrosius. 
"  Dear  me  !  I  must  be  losing  my  senses,"  he 
whispered.  "  Which  saint  is  it  we  pray  to  for 
hail?" 

"I  don't  know,"  the  other  whispered  back, 
frightened.  "Say  '  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua.' 
He's  the  one  that  gives  us  most  things  we 
want." 

"  No,  no — that  won't  do."  He  drew  himself 
up  to  his  full   height,  and,  thrusting  back  the 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     243 

Brother  Brewer,  "  No,  reverend  brother ! "  he 
cried  aloud,  "  I  beseech  you,  stop  your  pleading ! 
Ask  no  pity  for  this  hardened  sinner !  Oh,  blessed 
Saint  Aquarius,  show  this  reprobate  the  error  of 
his  ways  !  Teach  him,  oh,  blessed  Saint  Aquarius, 
that  no  man,  not  even  the  richest  farmer  in  the 
village,  can  make  war  upon  the  Church!  Let 
storm  and  thunder  arise  from  the  west" — he 
stretched  a  terrible  finger  to  the  cloudless  window 
— "  and  confound  him !  Oh,  blessed  Saint 
Aquarius,  give  hail ! " 

At  the  last  word  a  shudder  ran  through  his 
audience.  The  women  were  crying  bitterly  ;  all 
the  men— even  Stoppel — turned  pale. 

"  I've  always  done  my  duty  by  the  Church," 
stammered  Stoppel.     "Tisn't  fair.  .  .  ." 

"Won't  you  repent?"  pleaded  fat,  good- 
natured  little  Brother  Ambrosius. 

"If  he  does,  it  will  cost  you  two  thousand 
guilders,"  said  Bullebak,  standing  tall  and  terrible, 
his  great  arms  crossed  on  his  round  chest.  "  You 
see,  Stoppel,  how  magnanimous  the  Church  is. 
She  pleads  with  you  at  a  cost  to  herself  of  nearly 
seven  hundred  guilders  a  word ! " 

"  Oh,  Stoppel,  repent !  "  sobbed  his  spouse. 

The  farmer  gazed  at  all  the  people  present, 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  back  again. 

"  Oh,  Stoppel,  repent ! "  screamed  Vrouw 
Stoppel. 

That  decided  him.  He  looked  at  the  notary; 
he  looked  at  the  man  who  would  soon  be  his 
son-in-law.     No,  he  was  not  going  to   knuckle 


244     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

under  to  his  clamorous  wife  before  them  all,  and 
thus  make  himself  permanently  ridiculous. 

"  I'll  take  my  chance/'  he  said.  "  If  I  gain  my 
two  thousand  by  to-morrow  night,  you  shall  have 
them,  Steven  Bullebak !  We'll  put  off  signing 
the  contract  till  then  !  " 

The  priests  swept  to  the  door.  "Oh,  Saint 
Aquarius  ! "  bellowed  Bullebak  in  the  doorway, 
"hail  down — hail  down — hailstones  on  the  land 
before    to-morrow    night  !      Before    to-morrow 

night,  hail  down — hail "    His  voice  died  away 

in  the  distance. 

The  rest  stood  ill  at  ease.  "We'll  sign  the 
contract  at  this  time  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
Notary,"  said  the  farmer.  "  If  the  weather's  fine, 
Steven  shall  have  the  two  thousand.  They'll 
have  come  out  of  the  pocket  of  the  Church." 

"  And  if  the  storm  comes  ?  "  questioned  Steven 
anxiously. 

"  Then  you  shall  have  them  too.  I  can't  fight 
against  the  blessed  saints." 

The  notary  took  his  hat  and  shook  his  head. 
"  I  never  knew  you  were  an  infidel,  Stoppel,"  he 
said. 

"I'm  not  an  infidel.  But  'tisn't  fair.  The 
Holy  Virgin  herself  'd  say  it  wasn't  fair.  And 
I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  his  reverence  thinks. 
There's  one  or  two  things  I  know  that  his 
reverence  thinks  I  don't." 

All  that  day  the  men  and  women  and  children 
worked  in  the  great  fields,   but  not  with  the 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE     245 

frantic  vehemence  of  former  years.  There  was 
not  such  haste,  it  appeared,  to  be  ready.  The 
two  clerical  gentlemen  walked  about  encouraging 
them,  but  with  gentleness.  The  heat  was  very 
great.    The  sky  was  a  cloudless  blue. 

Next  morning  the  work  was  resumed,  but 
with  even  greater  deliberation.  The  sky  was  an 
unbroken  blue.  The  heat  was  intense.  The 
clerical  gentlemen  walked  among  the  people, 
telling  them  how  hot  it  was,  and  advising  them 
not  to  over-fatigue  themselves.  Father  Bullebak 
frequently  consulted  the  deep  silence  of  the  west. 
Brother  Ambrosius  asked  him  occasionally  what 
he  thought  of  the  weather,  and  the  third  time  his 
reply  was  quite  rude.  They  partook  of  their 
midday  meal  in  strained  monosyllabic  inter- 
course. Before  and  after  it  Father  Bullebak 
studied  the  barometer — down  in  the  lowest 
depths.  He  shook  his  head.  His  nap  was  a 
failure.  Soon  he  was  out  again  among  the 
reapers,  telling  them  not  to  over-exert  themselves. 

It  was  all  in  vain.  As  the  sun  sank,  on  the 
second  evening,  in  untarnished  glory,  the  last 
lingering  sheaves  were  bound  up.  Then  Farmer 
Stoppel,  whose  pride  had  kept  him  from  coming 
to  hurry  the  harvesters,  sallied  forth  and  stood 
gazing  at  the  stubble,  on  the  fields. 

In  the  study  of  the  parsonage  the  two 
ecclesiastics  were  together.  There  was  no  bottle 
of  wine  between  them.  Each  thought  his  own 
thoughts.  To  his,  Brother  Ambrosius  gave 
utterance. 


246     STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE 

"It's  your  fault,"  he  said;  "yes,  Father,  I 
must  say  it.  'Tis  your  fault.  You  prayed  to  the 
wrong  saint,  and  I  told  you  at  the  time.  There 
isn't  any  such  saint  as  Aquarius.  Why,  what 
could  be  the  use  of  praying  to  Aquarius  ?  I 
believe  he  was  a  heathen  god."  He  went  on 
about  this  until  Bullebak  snatched  him  up  : 

"Oh,  hang  you,"  cried  the  good  old  priest, 
"with  your  praying  to  Aquarius!  'Tisn't  that. 
'Tis  my  barometer  gone  wrong,  or  mad,  or  some- 
thing— my  Paris  barometer,  that  I  could  trust  as 
I  could  trust  my  own  soul."  He  rose,  fiercely, 
and  stalked  across  to  the  instrument.  Looking 
at  it — "  I  could  dash  it  to  the  ground,"  he  said. 

"  I  always  thought  there  was  something  evil 
in  trusting  to  these  so-called  scientific  inventions," 
said  the  brother,  shaking  his  head,  "  and  now  I 
know  it.    After  all,  we  have  no  authority  that 

barometers "     He  jumped,  for  an  oath  had 

burst  from  the  lips  of  Bullebak. 

The  father  had  loosened  the  barometer  from 
the  bookcase  to  examine  the  back  part  of  it ;  and 
there,  in  the  receptable  for  the  mercury,  was  a 
neat  little  crack,  through  which  evidently  a  large 
amount  of  the  liquid  had  been  allowed  to  escape. 

"  The  thing's  broken ! "  he  screamed.  Then  : 
"It's  been  tampered  with!"  Then:  "Oh,  the 
infidel !  the  atheist !  the  blasphemer ! " 

"Who?  What?"  asked  the  simpler  Am- 
brosius. 

"  Here  he  did  it !  "  shouted  Bullebak,  "  whilst 
we  were  at  mass.     He  wouldn't  have  us  go  to 


STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  HAIL-GAMBLE      247 

him !  He  came  here !  He  came  too  early  on 
purpose.  Oh,  the  Pharisee  !  The  Sadducee  and 
publican !  I'll  get  him  excommunicated  for  this ! " 
"  Pooh !  we  gambled  and  we've  lost,"  said 
Brother  Ambrosius. 

Next  morning  Farmer  Stoppel  signed  a  clean 
contract,  without  a  grin,  and  accorded  Steven 
the  extra  two  thousand  guilders.  Father  Bullebak 
was  not  present. 

"  Well,  he  must  give  me  the  two  pewter  pots, 
at  any  rate,"  said  Steven,  with  rather  a  rueful 
countenance. 

"  He'll  give  you  more  than  that,  or  I'll  let  out 
on  him ! "  replied  the  farmer,  and  for  the  first 
time  his  features  relaxed  into  a  grin.  Pressed 
further  to  explain  his  cryptic  meaning,  he  reso- 
lutely refused.  "  The  blessed  saints  forfend,"  he 
said  devoutly,  and  took  off  his  black  nightcap, 
"  that  I  should  say  or  do  anything  that  might 
injure  the  Church ! " 


TEETOTAL 

THE  wind  howled  outside  in  gusts.  The  rain 
flung  a  fretful  drizzle  against  the  window- 
panes.  The  outlook  was  raw  and  shivery. 
Rebecca  drew  the  red  rep  curtains  enclosing  the 
golden  glow  of  the  lamp. 

Klaas  Brunting— old  Baas  Klaas— sat  watch- 
ing his  sister's  movements;  sat  solid,  pipe  in 
mouth,  skull-cap  on  head,  filling,  with  the  folds 
of  his  ample  dressing-gown,  his  accustomed  arm- 
chair by  the  fire.  It  was  Saturday  evening. 
The  cat  purred.  The  winter  roses  bloomed,  a 
persistent  crimson,  on  Klaas's  carpet  slippers. 
He  stretched  out  his  feet  to  the  warmth,  and  the 
cat  opened  a  mildly  apprehensive  eye.  But  her 
master  could  get  what  he  wanted  without  dis- 
turbing her.  He  would  have  disturbed  her  else, 
remorselessly,  or  any  one  on  earth,  or  under  the 
earth,  for  the  matter  of  that. 

Rebecca  stooped  and  stroked  the  cat,  speak- 
ing softly.  Old  Klaas  watched,  with  a  gleam 
under  his  eyelids  that  might  have  been  a  smile 
or  a  sneer. 

"  Pussy,  pussy,"  murmured  Rebecca. 

Nobody  took  the  slightest  notice. 


TEETOTAL  249 

"Tis  a  miserable  evening,"  continued  the 
spinster. 

The  cat  pursed  up  her  cheeks,  purring  louder. 

"  Sam's  late,"  persisted  the  cat's  mistress — if, 
at  least,  she  was  a  mistress  of  anything  in  that 
house. 

"Seven  minutes,"  said  the  house's  master. 
He  drew  his  pipe  from  his  projecting  under-lip 
and  pointed  it  at  nothing.  "  I  never,"  he  added, 
after  a  solemn  pause  of  deliberate  reflection, 
"was  seven  minutes  late  in  my  life."  And  he 
put  back  the  pipe  with  a  snap. 

"You  were  always  so  exact.  I  never  knew 
anybody  quite  so  exact  as  you,"  spoke  Rebecca 
wistfully.  She  busied  herself  with  the  tea-things, 
and  presently  she  sighed. 

"  Yes,"  said  old  Klaas. 

It  was  true.  All  his  life  long  he  had  been 
exact  and  exacting.  He  had  worked  himself  up 
from  very  humble  beginnings,  in  the  little  town, 
to  a  position  of  moderate  importance.  The 
cheesemonger's  shop  he  had  started  in  as  an 
ill-treated  errand-boy  had  long  been  his  own. 
"Everybody  is  liable  to  make  mistakes,"  he 
frequently  declared,  whereby  he  meant  that  he 
had  never  made  one  ;  and  he  was  very  indignant, 
or  scornful,  if  any  one  else  did.  Angry  when 
he — Klaas  Brunting — lost  by  the  other's  error, 
scornful  when  he  gained.  As  for  his  sister — 
poor,  thriftless  thing! — he  thanked  Heaven  he 
had  always  been  enabled  to  provide  for  her. 
That,  in  fact,  was  the  chiefest  of  his  innumerable 


250  TEETOTAL 

merits.  Some  people  objected  to  the  epithet 
"thriftless"  when  applied  to  the  neatest  and 
carefullest  housekeeper  in  Valburg.  But  Klaas 
Brunting  had  known  his  sister  to  give  a  penny 
to  a  drunken  tramp.  He  himself  had  been  for 
many  years  a  deacon,  and  sat  where  the  deacons 
sit  in  church. 

"Sam  isn't  often  as  late  as  this,"  resumed 
Rebecca,  casting  a  glance  at  the  loud-ticking 
Frisian  clock. 

"Likely  he's  waiting  for  the  rain  to  stop," 
replied  her  brother.  And  he  added,  with  a  fierce 
chuckle:  "As  if  any  fool  couldn't  see  it'll  rain 
all  night." 

"  Sam's  no  fool,"  protested  Rebecca.  She  put 
down  her  brother's  second  cup  beside  him  with 
what  was  almost  a  jerk.  Klaas's  swollen  cheeks 
indicated  an  internal  smile.  He  knew,  and 
ignored,  this  one  weak  point. 

"  No,  Sam's  a  man  of  good,  practical  common- 
sense.  His  judgment  never  runs  away  with 
him,"  he  persisted,  for  he  was  jealous  of  his 
sister's  affection,  or  rather,  let  us  say,  devotion, 
refusing  to  share  it  with  any  one  but  the  cat. 

"  His  heart  does,"  said  Rebecca,  and  she  went 
to  the  window  and,  drawing  aside  a  curtain, 
peered  out  into  the  rain. 

Klaas  sniffed.  "  I  suppose  you  know  what 
that  means,"  he  mumbled.  "  But  if  Sam  had  had 
a  business  of  his  own,  instead  of  being  a  poor 
clerk  on  fixed  pay,  he'd  never  have  been  out  of 
the  bankruptcy  court." 


TEETOTAL  251 

"  We  can't  all  make  money,"  retorted  Rebecca, 
behind  the  curtain.  Her  heart  fluttered ;  she 
steadied  her  voice,  expecting  his  reply. 

"No,  some  of  us  can  spend  the  money  of 
other  people's  making."  Hard-headed  reckoner 
though  he  was,  it  would  never  have  occurred  to 
him,  nor  to  her,  that  her  house-wifery  meant 
money-making  for  him. 

But  Rebecca's  attention  had  fled  to  the  other 
side  of  the  glass.  She  screamed  a  little  scream 
of  surprise.  "  Why,  he's  walking  up  and  down 
across  the  street ! "  she  cried.  "  Why,  he's  walk- 
ing up  and  down  in  the  rain  !    Sam ! " 

"  Pooh !  He's  cracked ! "  said  Klaas  Brunting 
indignantly.     "  And  twenty  minutes  late." 

"Sam!  Sam!"  cried  Rebecca,  rapping  the 
window-pane. 

"  Don't  break  the  window  ! "  exclaimed  Klaas. 

"Sam!  Remember  your  bad  chest!"  shrieked 
Rebecca.  The  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  road 
heard  the  ticking ;  he  crossed  with  a  little  run, 
that  bespoke  a  sudden  resolve,  and  was  ushered 
into  the  warm  sitting-room  by  the  expostulating 
old  maid. 

Samuel  Roskam  was  the  single  and  life-long, 
intimate  friend  of  the  Bruntings.  He  was  of 
their  age — between  fifty  and  sixty— of  their  circle^ 
from  infancy,  and  their  social  status,  almost  of 
their  family,  being  some  sort  of  cousin,  certainly 
not  very  much  removed  in  anything — Rebecca 
could  have  told  the  exact  degree  of  relationship. 
There  had  never  been,  for  more  than  one  day, 


252  TEETOTAL 

twenty  miles  between  them.  But  a  greater 
distance  had  developed,  in  so  far  that  Klaas 
Brunting  had  grown  richer,  slowly,  by  his  own 
efforts,  and  Sam  poorer,  suddenly,  through  a 
brother's  fault.  Up  to  thirty — half-way  through 
their  closely-connected  existence — it  was  Sam, 
with  his  small  patrimony,  who  had  been  the 
envied  rich  relation;  then  one  day — the  whole 
thing  compressed  into  twenty-four  hours — Sam's 
brother  had  absconded,  and  written  to  say  there 
was  nothing  left  of  Sam's  money,  and  shot  him- 
self in  a  city  hotel.  Sam  Roskam  went  on  with 
his  work — as  a  clerk — in  the  little  local  town  hall. 
"  It's  a  good  thing  Lucy  wouldn't  have  me,"  was 
all  he  said ;  for,  seven  years  before,  he  had  taken 
his  courage  in  both  his  hands  and  proposed  to  a 
pretty  pink-and-white  creature,  whose  golden 
fringe  had  blinded  him,  and  had  found  himself 
laughingly  rejected  for  his  pains.  When  informed 
of  the  financial  crash,  "  It's  all  Sam's  fault,"  had 
said  Klaas,  without  further  elucidation.  "He'll 
never  be  able  now  to  support  a  wife."  This 
seemed  to  be  Sam's  own  opinion;  at  least,  he 
had  never  made  another  effort  to  obtain  one. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  with 
your  bronchitis ! "  chid  Rebecca,  as  she  fussed 
about  the  tall,  spare  man,  removing  his  grey 
shawl  and  his  damp  shiny  overcoat.  "  What  on 
earth  do  you  mean,  promenading  about  in  the 
wet?" 

"  Ruining  your  clothes,"  added  Klaas. 

The  cat,  annoyed  by  the  smell  of  moisture, 


TEETOTAL  253 

rumpled  her  nose  and  retreated  behind  the 
stove. 

"  I — I — never  mind,"  answered  Sam.  He  sat 
down  awkwardly,  hitched  up  his  clogged  trousers 
awkwardly,  and  stared  round  awkwardly. 

H  The  rum'll  soon  put  you  right,"  declared 
Klaas,  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  Gouda  pipe. 

Sam  started,  sniffed,  and,  recovering  himself, 
stared  harder  than  ever  at  the  other  side  of  the 
round  table. 

"  I — I  think  I  should  like  some  tea,"  he  said 
faintly. 

Rebecca  dropped  something,  whatever  she 
held  in  her  hand — nothing  breakable. 

"Tea?"  she  cried.  "You?  Tea,  of  all  things! 
Why,  for  twenty  years  you  haven't  touched  tea 
after  dark  I " 

"Wouldn't  sleep  a  wink  if  you  did,"  laughed 
old  Klaas  sardonically.  "Tea!  A  deleterious 
infusion  of— what's  the  Latin  name?  Com- 
paratively innocuous  in  the  morning,  if  made 
with  ventilated — what  d'ye  call  it — water!  Pah !" 
He  was  suddenly  enjoying  himself  hugely. 
"  Don't  give  him  any  tea,  Rebecca !  " 

"There's  none  left,"  said  the  spinster,  in 
mingled  tones  of  regret  and  relief. 

"Some  new  fad?"  continued  Brunting. 
"  Come,  Sam,  it's  quite  a  time  since  we  had  the 
last  one.  Which  was  the  last  one  ?  Shredded 
something  for  breakfast?  Or  Farm-Homes  for 
City  Orphans?  I  forget!"  It  was  true  that 
Sam   Roskam,   in    the   humdrum   trudge  of  his 


254  TEETOTAL 

office-life,  allowed  himself  the  relaxation  of  what 
Brunting  called  "enthuses."  His  own  health  and 
the  welfare  of  his  neighbours  interested  him  in  a 
manner  especially  provoking  to  Klaas,  who  cared 
for  neither.  "  Your  body's  all  right,  if  you  don't 
think  of  it,"  maintained  Klaas,  with  the  happy 
inversion  of  the  healthy,  and  "  The  less  you  do 
for  a  pauper,  the  sooner  he'll  tire  of  being  one," 
with  the  cheerful  sophistry  of  the  self-made. 

Samuel  Roskam,  conscious  of  no  claim  to  the 
self-confidence  he  lacked,  seldom  contradicted  his 
prosperous  and  truculent  crony.  Night  after 
night  they  sat  thus  together,  chance  intimates, 
like  so  many  life-friends,  with  nothing  in  common 
but  the  accident  of  not  living  elsewhere.  Probably 
— like  so  many  life-friends  again—they  would 
have  discovered  that  they  disliked  each  other 
had  they  reasoned  it  out.  Meanwhile,  old  Klaas 
Brunting  sneered,  and  Sam  Roskam  never  flared 
up  in  reply  except  when  some  matter  of  principle, 
as  he  deemed  it,  made  protest  a  duty.  Then  his 
grey  cheek  would  flush,  and  his  pale  eyes  grow 
paler,  sure  of  Rebecca's  encouragement,  feeble 
but  firm. 

"By-the-by,  how  are  the  Farm-Homes  pro- 
gressing?" suggested  Rebecca. 

He  plunged  into  the  Farm-Homes  :  the  last 
report  was  more  than  favourable.  The  town- 
bred  children  took  most  kindly  to  the  cheeses — 
"  Eating  'em  ?"  interposed  Brunting  with  a  growl. 
The  cheesemonger  would  hear  nothing  of  street- 
arabs  and  farm-produce.     "  As  well  expect  them 


TEETOTAL  255 

to  lay  eggs  because  they're  foul"  he  said.  " / 
shan't  buy  their  dirty  messes.  D'ye  mean  that 
you  really  give  your  money  for  this  sort  of  tom- 
foolery, Sam  ?  " 

"  I  send  them  my  very  modest  subscription," 
answered  Roskam,  looking  straight  at  Rebecca. 
But  immediately  afterwards  his  glance  again 
travelled  nervously  round  the  apartment,  in 
and  out  of  the  corners.  His  manner  was  very 
peculiar  to-night ;  she  wondered  what  was 
wrong. 

"The  sort  of  man  that  potters  about  under 
the  rain,  instead  of  coming  in,"  replied  Klaas.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  tobacco-canister. 
"  Get  the  punch,  Rebecca !    Do  ! " 

Sam  Roskam  gave  a  jump  on  his  chair— on 
the  edge  he  was  occupying.  They  both  saw  it. 
You  couldn't  but  see. 

Klaas  shouted  with  laughter.  "  Lord,  man  ! " 
he  cried.  "  Why  didn't  you  say  you  were  in  such 
a  hurry  before?"  Again  he  shouted  :  "  Ha!  ha! 
Instead  of  jabbering  about  tea  !" 

"  I — I — I "  said  Sam,  and  halted.    Rebecca 

had  risen  and  was  fetching  things  from  cupboards, 
with  mutterings  about  damps  and  bronchitis  and 
tempting  Providence  and  good  stiff 

"  I  should  like  to  say "  began  Sam.     He 

twitched  up  his  eyebrows — he  looked  as  if  some- 
body were  extracting  all  his  teeth.  The  golden 
spirit  gurgled  down  pleasantly  into  the  tumbler 
from  the  long-necked  black  bottle.  Rebecca 
stopped   pouring  in   amazement.      The  brother 


256  TEETOTAL 

and  sister  both  stared.  The  kettle  sang,  hot,  on 
the  stove. 

"  I  would  rather  have  no  punch,  thank 
you,  Rebecca,"  said  the  miserable  Sam.  He 
breathed  a  great  gasp,  as  if  the  last  tooth  were 
out. 

But  he  was  mistaken — it  was  the  first. 

Klaas  Brunting,  his  pipe  in  his  left  hand, 
brought  down  his  clenched  right  on  the  table, 
making  tumblers  and  glasses  to  ring. 

"Tea,  and  no  tea!"  he  cried.  " Punch,  and 
no  punch !  I  will  and  I  won't,  and  I  don't  know 
what  I  want,  or  I  do  !  There's  no  bearing  with 
your  cranks  and  your  fancies,  your  whims  and 
your  oddities,  Sam  Roskam !  Take  the  good 
drinks  that  Providence  sends  you,  and  go  to  the 
devil,  and  have  done  !  " 

"Just  so.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  devil," 
answered  Sam.     The  other  only  snorted. 

"  Has  the  doctor  said  that  spirits  were  bad 
for  your  cough,  Sam?"  asked  Rebecca  in  the 
gentlest  of  tones. 

"  No ;  he's  found  it  in  one  of  his  rubbishy 
health  books,"  declared  her  brother.  "  One  of  the 
blessed  pamphlets  he  goes  to  for  a  new  diet  every 
month  of  the  year."  Now  this  was  a  gross  ex- 
aggeration ;  but  old  Klaas  hated  all  the  books  of 
the  kind  Sam  had  ever  studied,  for  every  one 
of  them  discouraged  cheese. 

"  Diet  be  blowed  !"  added  Klaas,  and  fiercely 
bade  his  sister  push  across  his  glass.  She  made 
a  mild  movement  towards  Sam ;   he  waved  the 


TEETOTAL  257 

steaming  tumbler  aside.  "  It— it's  not  a  question 
of  health,"  murmured  Sam. 

"  Then,  what  is  it,  pray  ?  I  suppose  we  must 
know,"  thundered  old  Brunting.  "  I  suppose 
you're  not  quite  out  of  your  mind — your  thoughts 
still  have  some  sort  of  meaning?  So  I  suppose 
we  must  know!"  He  shook  himself  together, 
like  some  irritable  animal,  in  his  big  brown 
cloak.  "  I  suppose  you've  discovered  now  you 
can  only  sleep  upon  tea ! "  he  said. 

Under  the  reiterated  insult  of  all  these  sup- 
positions, Sam's  self-respect  wrigged  right-side 
up.  "It's  a  matter  of  conscience,"  he  spoke. 
"A — a  matter  of  principle.  I've  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it's  wrong  to  take  punch." 

The  silence  was  oppressive.  The  cat  came 
from  behind  the  stove  and  humped  her  back  in 
front  of  it. 

"  Do  you  mean?"  ventured  Rebecca  at  length. 
But  that  fired  old  Klaas.  With  his  pipe  he  thrust 
back  his  sister  into  silence. 

"  Let  him  speak ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Don't  ask 
him  what  he  means !  He  hasn't  an  idea.  But  let 
him  speak.  He  don't  mean  anything,  but  it's 
pleasant  to  hear  him.  Well,  Sam,  so  it's— what 
did  you  say  ? — wrong  to  drink  punch  ?  "  He  set 
himself  to  listen,  ostentatiously.  His  eyes 
twinkled.  He  was  really  getting  a  lot  of  enjoy- 
ment out  of  this,  quite  unconscious  as  yet  of  a 
deeper  meaning  in  Sam's  latest  fad. 

"  I've  been  thinking  about  it  a  great  deal  these 
days,"   began   Roskam,  looking  at  nobody,  but 


268  TEETOTAL 

speaking  gravely  to  Rebecca,  "  and  reading  also. 
And  I'm  more  and  more  convinced  they're  right. 
Yes,  our  great  source  of  misery  and  wickedness 
is  drink.  The  canker  that  eats  out  the  heart 
of  this  nation  is  gin  —  Rebecca."  He  turned 
suddenly  to  the  spinster,  who  nodded. 

Old  Klaas  had  pushed  back  his  black  skull- 
cap. His  beady  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  speaker. 
Now  he  lay  back  in  his  chair.     "  Temperance 

talk,  by  G ! "  he  said  in  a  low  voice.     All  the 

lighter  sneer  had  gone  out  of  it.  There  was 
only  scorn. 

And  all  at  once  Sam  looked  full  at  him. 
"  Yes,  temperance  talk,"  said  Sam.  "  Thank 
Heaven." 

"  Thank  what  ?  "  asked  the  quondam  deacon. 
"  I  thank  Heaven  there  are  men  in  this  country 
who  dare  to  talk  temperance  talk,"  said  Sam. 

"To  drunkards,  by  all  means,"  retorted 
Brunting.  "  Were  you  speaking  to  Rebecca  or 
tome?" 

"The  duty  of   example "  reasoned    the 

convert ;  but  Klaas  would  not  allow  him  to 
proceed.  With  both  hands  uplifted,  "Spare 
us  !  "  he  cried.  Then  he  emptied — an  unusual 
thing  for  him— his  glass  at  one  gulp.  "  Might  I 
trouble  you,"  he  questioned  politely,  "to  pass 
this  tumbler  to  Rebecca  ?  Or  is  that  a  sin  which, 
since  yesterday,  you  cannot  commit  ?  " 

Sam    thrust    the    glass    across    and    began 
speaking  eagerly. 

"  You  can't  understand,"  he  said.     "  I  mustn't 


TEETOTAL  259 

expect  you  to  understand.  Only,  don't  you  see, 
once  a  man  realises — I've  been  having  it  borne 
in  upon  me  for  weeks — I  wanted  to  speak  before, 
only  I'was  afraid  that  you'd  laugh  at  me."  "Oh, 
by  no  means,"  put  in  Klaas.  "  I  didn't  want 
you  to  laugh  at  me,  Rebecca.  That's  why  I 
stopped  outside  to-night.  But,  don't  you  see, 
when  a  man  once  realises  how  all  the  wicked- 
ness  " 


"  We've  had  that  before,"  remarked  Klaas. 

"Of  this  whole  nation,"  continued  Sam, 
raising  his  voice,  M  is  largely  attributable  to 
drink — to  drink,  Rebecca — you  can't  deny  it." 

"  No,  oh  no,"  said  the  spinster  hastily. 

"  When  we  realise  that,  why  then  —  why 
then " 

"  We  don't  drink.  We  drink  nothing  at  all," 
said  Klaas.  He  wagged  his  big  bullock-head 
emphatically.  But  he  prodded  the  tobacco  into 
his  pipe,  with  deep  prods  of  an  angry  thumb. 

"  We  loathe  the  very  look  of  the  liquor,"  said 
Sam.  He  struck  his  hand  against  the  black 
bottle  with  miscalculated  energy;  he  had  to 
topple  it  straight  before  it  fell.  Rebecca,  with 
an  apprehensive  glance  at  her  brother,  set  the 
wicked  thing  away. 

"  So,"  began  old  Klaas,  and  the  word  showed 
there  was  a  great  deal  coming  "you're  going  to 
give  up  drinking  punch  ?  "    He  sat  well  back  in 
his  arm-chair  and  squared  his  knees. 
"  Yes,"  said  Sam  uncomfortably. 
"  Where  did  you  get  drunk  ?  " 


260  TEETOTAL 

"  What  d'ye  mean,  Klaas  ?  Oh,  Klaas !  "  cried 
Rebecca. 

"  You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean.  You 
needn't  keep  it  up  before  me  and  Rebecca.  Of 
course  you've  been  and  got  drunk  somewhere, 
like  as  might  happen  to  any  man,  though  I 
should  never  have  thought  it  of  you.  Was  it  at 
that  funeral,  last  Tuesday,  the  other  clerk's  ? 
Well,  better  men  than  you  have  got  drunk  at  a 
funeral,  but  they  didn't  whine  about  wickedness 
afterwards." 

"I  never  took  a  drop  too  much  in  all  my 
life,"  replied  Sam.  His  tone  was  too  absolutely 
sincere  to  admit  of  further  doubt. 

"  Then  I'm  floored.  I'd  thought  of  the  only 
possible  explanation,  and — if  it's  not  the  right 
one,  then  I'm  done."  Klaas  Brunting  jammed 
the  pipe  between  his  lips  and  drew  three  spiteful 
puffs.     The  cat  edged  away  from  him. 

"  It's  the  example,  I  tell  you.  Henceforth  I 
intend,  for  my  part,  to  set  an  example " 

"To  whom?  To  Rebecca?"  burst  out  the 
other. 

"  No— no " 

u  To  me  ?  "  His  voice  rose  to  that  shout  like 
a  shot.  He  waved  Roskam  down,  and  the 
torrent  of  his  pent-up  eloquence  rolled  forth. 
"  /  understand !  You  needn't  explain  any  more. 
For  the  Lord's  sake  stop  explaining.  You're 
a  pattern  to  other  people  that  don't  go  in  for 
your  fancies  and  philanthropies,  and  always  have 
been.    You're  virtuous,  you  are  ;  and  you  know, 


TEETOTAL  261 

better'n  any  one,  what's  good  for  your  body,  and 
their  souls !  It's  well  enough  as  long  as  you 
keep  to  your  own  atomy,  and  I've  stood  any 
amount,  for  years,  of  what  suits  your  inside  and 
what  don't !  /  don't  mind,  as  I've  told  Rebecca 
over  and  over  again ;  as  long  as  I  can  have  my 
meals  regular,  let  him  talk !  " 

*  I  never  interfered  with  your  meals,"  objected 
Sam.  "Though  you  always  overeat  yourself, 
and  you'll  die  of  it  some  day  !  " 

Rebecca  clasped  her  hands,  in  terror  and  joy 
at  such  daring. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  interfere  with  me 
in  anything,"  screamed  old  Klaas.  "You  think 
you've  got  a  fine  chance  now,  but  you're  mis- 
taken !  You  intend  to  come  here  night  after 
night,  and  sit  watching  me  drinking  my  rum,  as 
I've  done  all  my  life" — suddenly  he  dropped  his 
voice — "  respectably,  decently  drinking  my  rum," 
he  said  impressively,  "and  you  sitting  there  as 
an  example?    No !" 

"  No-o-o,"  he  repeated,  slowly  sinking  his 
gaze  to  the  scarlet  blooms  on  his  feet.  The  cat 
turned  her  back  upon  them  all.  In  the  dull 
silence  Brunting  lifted  his  heavy  eyebrows. 
"  Fill  his  glass,  and  have  done  ! "  he  commanded. 
Rebecca  mechanically  half  rose,  her  eyes  on 
Sam's  face,  and  shrank  down  again. 

"  See  here,  Sam  Roskam  "  — old  Klaas  spoke 
with  leisurely  distinctness — "  either  you'll  drink 
your  share  of  toddy,  like  a  man,  or — or  you'll  not 
stop  to  see  me  drink  mine." 


262  TEETOTAL 

Sam  Roskam's  face  went  white,  not  whiter 
than  Rebecca's.     "  I  can't/'  he  said. 

"  We've  sat  here  together,  every  night,  for 
more  than  thirty  years.  I've  stood  all  your  fads, 
as  I  said  before ;  they  didn't  hurt  me.  But  you'll 
not  sit  there  preaching  at  me,  with  your  empty 
glass,  for  my  wickedness,  night  after  night,  I  tell 
you.  So  you'll  let  Rebecca  fill  your  glass,  or 
else  you'll  go." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Sam.  The  cat,  facing  them  all 
again,  sat  licking  her  paw,  with  an  assumption  of 
indifference. 

Sam  drew  a  vast  breath.  "  I've  signed  the 
pledge,"  he  said. 

"  Signed  the "    Old  Klaas  stuck ;  his  pipe 

dropped  to  the  floor  in  a  smash,  and  the  cat  flew 
away  from  it.  Klaas  lay  back  in  his  chair,  as  if 
some  one  had  knocked  the  wind  out  of  him.  "A 
d teetotal  fool ! "  he  gasped. 

"  So,  you  see,  I  can't  help  myself  now.  The 
matter's  settled,"  said  Sam,  almost  cheerfully. 

Old  Klaas  had  picked  up  his  pipe  and  now 
carefully  examined  the  broken  bowl.  Probably 
the  wreck  angered  him  more  than  he  knew. 
Possibly  the  wreck  decided  the  whole  thing. 

"  Yes,  the  matter's  settled,"  he  echoed.  Then 
he  pointed  to  the  door  with  the  broken  stump 
and,  looking  full  at  Sam  :  "  Good  night ! "  he  said. 

Sam  rose  to  his  feet.  u  You  turn  me  out  ?  " 
he  breathed.  "  After  all  these  years  ?  "  Rebecca 
had  risen  also.  She  came  round  to  her  brother  ; 
he  motioned  her  back  with  the  stump. 


TEETOTAL  263 

"  You  can  come  back  whenever  you  choose  !  " 
he  said ;  his  fat  face  had  grown  purple,  despite 
his  soft  tones ;  the  apoplectic  veins  were  stand- 
ing out  in  it. 

"Come  back?  How  can  I  come  back?"  ex- 
claimed Sam,  at  the  door.  The  quiet  gesture, 
remorseless,  was  irresistibly  pushing  him  forth. 

"  You  can  break  the  pledge,"  said  Klaas.  The 
other  passed  out,  dragging  his  draggled  coat  after 
him.   "  The  idiotic  pledge,"  said  Klaas,  in  his  back. 

The  brother  and  sister  heard  the  front-door 
bang.     "  He'll  never  come  back,"  said  Rebecca. 

"  The  more  fool  he,"  replied  Klaas. 

Rebecca  stood  on  the  farther  side  of  the  table. 
"  He  was  right,  and  you  were  wrong,"  she  said. 

He  started,  not  believing  his  ears.  "  Are  you 
mad  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  You  never  said  anything 
like  that  to  me  in  your  life." 

"Nor  never  wanted  to.     Though "  she 

gathered  courage,  "  I  may  have  thought  it.     I've 
always  done  as  you  wish,  Klaas,  but — but " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  cried,  half  scared, 
"that  he's  to  come  here  and  reproach  me  with 
drunkenness,  as  if  I  was  our  cousin,  Wim  Loper  ? 
I — I !  "  He  stood  up  and  stamped  with  his  foot, 
"  I — I— Klaas  Brunting — as  if  I  was  that  drunkard, 
Wim  Loper ! " 

"  Nobody  mentioned  Wim  Loper,  Klaas.  Be- 
sides, he's  been  steady  now  for  nine  months. 
He's  reformed." 

"  Let  him  take  the  pledge.  I'll  be  bound  Sam 
was  thinking  of  Loper  all  the  time.     Wim's  our 


264  TEETOTAL 

cousin,  on  our  side,  and  I  daresay  he  thinks  drink- 
ing runs  in  the  blood !  If  he'd  stayed  here  an 
hour  longer,  he'd  have  told  me  to  sign  the 
pledge.  I  saw  it  in  his  eyes  all  the  time,  watch- 
ing my  glass  !  I  tell  you  I  saw  it,"  he  cried 
furiously.  "  The  canting  humbug !  Eat  too 
much,  do  I  ?  He'd  have  added,  '  and  drink  too 
much,'  had  he  dared ! " 

"  Nobody  could  say  that,  Klaas,  with  your  two 
glasses  a  night,  and  three  on  birthdays.  But  so 
full-blooded  a  man  as  you'd  be  all  the  better 
without  rum,  all  the  same." 

"  Are  you  taking  his  part  against  me  ?  "  cried 
Klaas. 

"  No,"  she  said  shortly. 

She  walked  to  a  cupboard  in  the  wall  from 
which  she  extracted  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  He 
watched  her.     She  put  them  on. 

"  Where  are  you  going  at  this  time  of  night  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

"  To  see  after  Sam,"  she  answered. 

"D'ye  think  to  bring  him  back?"  he  cried. 
There  was  a  glad  leap  of  triumph  in  the 
cry. 

"  No,"  she  said  again.  "  He  wouldn't  come- 
not  unless " 

"You  stop  where  you  .are,"  he  said,  dis- 
appointed. 

"  Why,  Klaas,  he's  never  been  alone  like  this 
before.  I'll  just  go  and  see  what  he's  doing.  I 
won't  be  long." 

"  You  just  stop  where  you  are." 


TEETOTAL  265 

She  hesitated,  steadying  her  trembling  limbs 
against  a  chair. 

"  Want  to  run  after  him,  do  you  ?  When  he's 
never  asked  you  all  these  years  ?  " 

She  made  as  if  she  would  have  answered  him 
rapidly,  but  checked  herself.  The  cat,  defrauded 
as  never  before  of  a  customary  saucer,  plucked, 
mewing,  at  her  skirt.  She  did  not  notice  it. 
Then,  steadily,  she  turned  to  the  door. 

That  action  maddened  him.  The  words  were 
out  before  he  had  fathomed  their  portent. 

"  If  you  go  after  him  you  needn't  come  back !  " 

The  next  moment  he  was  alone  in  the  room, 
with  the  cat  rubbing  against  his  legs  for  milk. 
Rebecca  had  heard  and,  having  heard,  she  had 
gone. 

In  the  ruin  of  his  whole  life  which  had  come 
thus  suddenly,  he  realised  so  much  at  once,  clearly, 
once  for  all.  They  were  gone  for  ever ;  he  had 
made  their  return  impossible ;  he  could  not  let 
them  come  back  without  incurring  their  per- 
manent contempt  and  his  own.  It  had  been  his 
unswerving  maxim  to  approve  himself.  At  what- 
ever cost  he  must  stick  to  that. 

He  sat  burrowing  into  this  one  idea,  until  he 
was  deep  down  in  it,  in  the  dark.  He  kicked 
aside  the  cat,  henceforth  his  only  companion,  and 
went  across  the  room  to  fetch  the  long,  black 
bottle,  exceeding  his  most  festive  allowance. 
Presently  he  deliberately  stumbled  to  the  door 
and  locked  it,  and  put  on  the  chain.  Not  too 
soon,  for  almost  immediately  afterwards  he  heard 


266  TEETOTAL 

a  hand  at  the  lock,  with  the  spare  latch-key 
Rebecca  always  carried  in  her  pocket.  He  sat 
in  his  arm-chair  listening  to  the  fumbling.  How 
long  it  lasted  !  At  length  there  was  a  timid  ring. 
Then  a  long  wait.  He  sat  breathing  heavily. 
The  cat  crept  to  the  door  and  mewed.  So  loud, 
she  must  have  heard.  "  Hist !  "  he  said.  He  felt 
the  presence  outside  the  outer  door.  He  waited 
for  a  second  ring.  It  didn't  come,  and  unable  to 
bear  the  tension  any  longer,  he  blew  out  the  lamp. 
Then  he  knew  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done 
but  to  stumble  away  from  the  living  silence  in 
front  of  him,  red  and  giddy,  and  resolute,  to  the 
darkness  upstairs. 

#  #  #  *  '# 

From  that  night  Klaas  Brunting,  who  had 
always  known  himself  to  be  a  very  good  man, 
became,  as  he  quite  realised,  in  duty  bound,  a 
bad  one.  He  could  not  act  otherwise.  "  A  man's 
word's  a  man's  word,"  he  said. 

His  neighbours,  who  had  always  disliked  him 
for  his  truculence,  but  grudgingly  admitted  his 
chief  virtue,  success,  were  delighted  to  find  honest 
cause  for  abuse.  All  told  how  he  had  turned  his 
good  sister  out  of  doors  because  she  had  tried  to 
keep  him  from  drinking.  It  thus  became  known 
that  the  former  deacon  was  a  man  of  intemperate 
habits,  and  people  who  had  always  deemed  him 
as  respectable  as  he  was  disagreeable,  eagerly 
pointed  out  to  each  other  that  he  was  not. 

His  sister,  as  the  whole  town  was  aware,  had 
vainly  asked  him  to  take  her  back — more  fool  she. 


TEETOTAL  267 

Then  she  had  sent  him  her  latch-key,  and,  two 
days  later,  had  stepped,  gladly  welcomed,  into  a 
vacant  situation  as  matron  of  a  local  home.  The 
committee,  though  trembling  at  any  risk  of  failure, 
hesitated  for  a  moment  over  the  stipulated  nightly 
visits  of  Sam  Roskam  to  the  housekeeper's  room. 
The  male  members  said  :  "  Oh,  bother  ! "  But 
the  minister's  wife  said  :  "  No." 

"  You  must  admit  that  it  is— ahem — unusual ! " 
said  the  minister's  wife,  who  was  not  unusual  in 
any  way. 

Rebecca,  with  some  of  her  brother's  obstinacy, 
declined  to  argue  the  point. 

"  If  only  you  were  near  relations  ! "  sighed  the 
lady. 

"We  are  relations,"  replied  Rebecca,  "but 
not  near  enough." 

"  Or — or  engaged ! " 

Rebecca  flushed.  "We  are  not  engaged," 
she  said.  The  minister's  wife  sighed  again  with 
an  air  of  reproach.  As  a  fixed  rule  she  disliked 
people's  not  being  engaged  when  she  wished 
them  to  be.  And  with  a  full  sense  of  her  re- 
ponsibility  she  wrote  to  Sam  Roskam,  whom 
she  didn't  know,  on  the  subject.  Sam  Roskam 
showed  Rebecca  the  letter. 

"She  is  right,"  said  Rebecca  quietly.  "In 
a  home  like  that  the  matron's  example  is  very 
important.  It  would  be  different  if  we  were 
engaged." 

Sam  Roskam  lifted  his  mild  eyes  and  looked 
at  her.     Her  eyes  also  were  mild  as  they  looked 


268  TEETOTAL 

at  him.  They  sat  in  his  poor  little  attic,  with 
the  fading  light  about  them,  their  faded  faces, 
their  fading  lives. 

"Yes,  she  is  right,"  said  Sam  meditatively. 
"  It  would  be  better  if  we  were  engaged."  Her 
heart  gave  a  flutter  at  his  change  of  word. 

"Why  shouldn't  we?"  said  Sam  softly.  "I 
mean,"  he  added  quickly,  "  pretend  to  be  engaged, 
of  course.     I  know  it  could  only  be  pretence." 

She  sighed  heavily.  "  Yes  ;  it  could  only  be 
pretence."  Yet  the  thing  was  most  exceedingly 
sweet  to  her,  sweet,  and  utterly  new  and  long, 
long  waited  for,  if  hopeless  withal.  In  his  situa- 
tion as  clerk  at  the  town-hall  he  earned  some 
thirty-five  pounds,  not  enough  to  keep  his  own 
body  and  soul  satisfactorily  together :  there  was 
no  chance  of  his  ever  earning  more.  Between 
them,  in  the  nightly  intercourse  of  the  endless 
years,  had  lain  the  oppressive  silence  of  a 
something  left  unsaid.  And  now,  suddenly,  the 
thought  had  found  utterance,  a  thought  whose 
existence  she  had  ever  hoped,  and  feared,  and 
doubted,  throughout  all  her  brother's  taunts  and 
her  old-maid  fancies.  Over  the  autumn  heart 
of  the  spinster  broke  a  gentle  and  clouded  sun- 
light. The  desire  of  her  lover  was  hers,  an 
eternal  possession. 

"  It  would  make  things  much  easier,"  said 
Sam. 

She  did  not  answer,  for  she  could  not  speak. 

They  sat  together  in  the  quiet  attic.  Pre- 
sently she  pushed  down  the  green  shade  of  the 


TEETOTAL  269 

oil-lamp.  It  was  late  when  she  rose  to  go.  She 
held  out  her  hand.  "  Good-bye,  Sam.  I  will 
tell  them/'  she  said. 

Old  Klaas  smiled  most  evilly  when  he  heard 
the  news.  She  wrote  it  to  him  simply,  lest  he 
should  hear  it  from  strangers.  He  had  hired  a 
woman,  who  looked  after  his  wants,  more  or 
less,  and  spent  twice  as  much  as  the  "  thriftless  " 
Rebecca.  "Ask  her,  when  '11  the  wedding  be?" 
he  said  to  this  woman,  tilting  the  long-necked 
black  bottle  again— now-a-days  he  lost  count. 
"  When  I'm  dead,  I  suppose,"  he  added  with  an 
oath.  He  would  not  write  to  his  sister,  whom 
he  considered  responsible,  somehow,  for  all  the 
new  misery  in  his  house  and  heart,  but  he  sent 
her  a  verbal  message,  through  the  minister's 
wife,  that  she  never  need  count  on  a  penny  from 
him.  "  Alive  or  dead,"  he  added.  The  minister's 
wife  was  rather  glad  of  this,  as  she  was  anxious 
to  keep  her  most  excellent  matron.  "  Tell  him 
I  will  come  back  without,"  said  Rebecca. 

Klaas  Brunting,  from  his  place  in  church,  his 
place  of  honour,  could  see  the  blue  spot  on  Sam 
Roskam's  shabby  coat,  and,  one  morning,  with 
rage  in  his  heart,  he  espied  the  same  symbol 
upon  Rebecca's  breast.  That  Sunday  night,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  sullenly  drank  himself 
dead  drunk.  He  gave  his  housekeeper  money 
next  morning  not  to  speak  of  it  to  any  one.  His 
supreme  dread  now  became  lest  the  outside  world 
should  discover  that  its  libels  had  come  true. 
The  woman  encouraged  a  habit  in  which  she 


270  TEETOTAL 

saw  an  easy  source  of  profit  to  herself.  He 
would  sit  gloomily  over  his  glass,  with  conjested 
brows,  muttering  that  Sam  and  Rebecca  were 
"murderers,"  over  and  over  again.  Once  the 
woman,  as  dull-witted  as  she  was  sharply  curious, 
asked  him  what  he  meant.  With  one  of  his  now 
habitual  oaths  he  snarled  to  her  to  hold  her 
tongue. 

It  was  many  months  after  that,  however,  that 
the  woman,  having  waited  breakfast  for  him 
thirteen  minutes — for  him  whose  whole  life  had 
been  a  clockwork — grumbled  her  way  upstairs, 
to  find  that  the  hands  had  stopped  for  good. 
She  took  two-thirds  of  the  loose  change  out  of 
his  pockets ;  then  she  went  and  told  Rebecca, 
telling  all  the  neighbours  on  the  way.  Rebecca 
shed  truly  sorrowful  tears,  from  natural  affection, 
and  also  because  the  doctor  said  that  her  brother 
had  drunk  himself  to  death.  "  He  was  always 
apoplectic,"  said  Sam.  "He  would  have  died, 
any  way."  And,  as  Rebecca,  unreasonably  went 
on  crying :  "  We  all  do,"  said  Sam. 

The  man  who  had  been  a  deacon  was  buried 
respectfully,  as  such.  All  the  more  did  the 
contents  of  his  will  come  as  a  horrible  and 
shocking  surprise.  His  cheesemonger's  shop 
and  all  his  other  little  property  were  left  to 
Rebecca  and  Sam  conjointly,  but  there  was  a 
condition  attached.  The  condition  was  that  the 
pair  of  them  should  get  drunk  together  within 
a  week  of  the  testator's  death.  That  was  all.  If 
they  failed  to  carry  out  this  condition,  the  whole 


TEETOTAL  271 

property  passed,  irremediably,  to  Wim  Loper, 
the  reformed  cousin,  long  since  hopelessly 
relapsed. 

"Oh,  sir!"  sobbed  Rebecca  to  the  lawyer. 
"  Oh,  sir ! "  weeping  far  more  bitterly  than  during 
the  funeral.  "  Don't  let  anybody  know  of  this  ! 
Don't  let  anybody  know,  I  beseech  you!  Oh, 
how  unhappy  my  poor  brother  must  have 
been ! " 

Sam  gazed  at  her,  as  she  stood  there,  with 
her  silver-streaked  hair,  in  her  decent  mourning, 
her  handkerchief  raised  to  her  pale  face.  A  great 
bitterness  came  over  him  against  the  villain  who 
was  thus  playing,  dead,  with  their  innocent  lives. 
"God!  he's  unhappier  now!"  said  Sam. 

Even  the  notary,  who  believed  in  nothing  but 
stamped  paper,  shuddered  at  the  words,  and, 
perhaps,  still  more  at  their  tone.  It  was  some 
time  before  Rebecca  could  speak  at  all.  At  last 
she  steadied  her  features,  and,  struggling  hard 
to  steady  her  voice  as  well,  she  turned  to  the 
man  of  law. 

"  Would  you  leave  us  alone  for  a  few  moments, 
if  you  please,  sir?"  she  said.  "Me  and  my — 
this  gentleman,  to  talk  it  over?"  The  notary 
was  about  to  make  some  suggestion,  when  a 
clerk,  thrusting  a  fussy  head  into  the  sanctum, 
called  his  master  hastily  away  to  the  telephone. 
Rebecca  and  Sam  stood  opposite  each  other  in 
the  solemn,  little,  musty  room. 

"  I  won't  say  anything,"  said  Sam. 

"  No,  don't,"  answered  Rebecca. 


272  TEETOTAL 

"  The  scoundrel ! "  said  Sam. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  reproof  and  with  anger. 
So  much  of  both  that  he  shrank  bank. 

"  I  mean  the  lawyer,"  he  explained  hastily. 
And  then,  unwilling  to  pretend  to  deceive  her, 
even  where  she  was  nowise  deceived :  "  Being 
in  a  lawyer's  room,  seeing  it's  the  first  time,"  he 
added  apologetically,  "I  suppose  it  makes  me 
call  names." 

"It  was  very  bad  of  him,"  she  admitted 
quickly.  "Oh,  very  cruel  and  bad.  But" — her 
lip  trembled — "but — it  doesn't  matter  so  very 
much,  really,  Sam,  does  it?  We — we  won't 
leave  off  being  engaged  ?  "  She  spoke  wistfully 
— then,  as  his  answer  delayed,  with  sudden 
vehemence:  "Oh,  I  feel  it's  selfish.  I've  often 
thought  of  late  I'm  very  selfish,  Sam.  So  that 
I  may  earn  my  living  pleasantly,  for  I  love  the 
work,  though  I  do  wish  they'd  give  me  an  extra 
girl  in  the  laundry  for  the  summer  months,  so 
that  I  may  earn  my  living,  I  tie  you  down  to  this 
life-long  farce."  She  broke  down  completely, 
miserably  at  the  word ;  then  she  fiercely  repeated 
it:  "This  endless,  hopeless  farce."  Presently, 
calm  again,  she  plodded  heroically  on.  "  I  keep 
you,"  she  said  in  tremulous  tones,  "from  the 
choice  of  a  younger  woman,  Sam." 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  exclaimed;  "I'm  such  a  gay 
young  spark ! " 

She  set  herself  to  see  no  beauty  in  the  sensi- 
tive face  before  her.  She  tried  to  look  at  him 
objectively — in  vain.     It  seemed  to  her  as  if  no 


TEETOTAL  273 

woman's  heart  could  encounter  with  indifference 
the  gaze  of  those  love-loving  eyes.  "A  man 
doesn't  age  like  a  woman,"  she  said.  "There's 
nobody  as  old  as  an  old  maid." 

"It's  I  that  am  to  blame,"  said  Sam.  "Not 
brains  enough  to  support  a  wife  ! " 

"  How  strange  are  the  rules  of  these  charit- 
able institutions!"  she  answered.  "A  matron 
may  have  a  lover  come  to  see  her,  but  she 
mayn't  have  a  husband  come  to  stay." 

"  We  knew  that.  We  knew  we  never  could 
marry." 

A  flush  spread  over  her  thin,  old  cheek.  She 
would  not  have  admitted  to  herself  that  another 
thought  had  ever  occurred  to  her.     And  yet 

He  saw  the  flush,  faint  as  it  was.     "  D it," 

he  said,  with  a  frightful  fierceness  that  staggered 
her.     "  Let's  get  drunk  and  have  done  with  it ! " 

"Oh,  Sam— hush!" 

"When  a  man's  stopped  in  his  path  by  a 
lunatic,  he — he  must  parley  with  the  lunatic," 
Roskam  continued  furiously.  "When  a  man's 
threatened  by  a  murderer,  he  must  protect  him- 
self first,  right  or  wrong !  Is  this  murderer  to 
kill  all  that's  left  of  our  lives,  to  crush  our  last 
chance  of  happiness?     Is  this  lunatic " 

She  thrust  out  both  arms  to  ward  off  the 
attack.  His  anger  turned  on  her.  "  Very  well," 
he  said  calmly.  "  After  all,  you  are  right.  It  is 
far  more  natural  and  desirable  and  right  that  yon 
drunken  wretch,  who  is  not  really  a  relation  at 
all,  should  spend  the  money  in  drinking  himself 


274  TEETOTAL 

to  death.     Yes,  that  is  sensible,  and  religious 
and  just.     I  am  glad  you  are  religious,  Rebecca." 
She  pointed  to  the  little  blue  badge  on  his 
breast. 

"  Plenty  of  men  have  broken  that,"  he  said. 

Unable  to  speak,  she  pointed  to  her  own. 
"And  women,  too,"  he  answered  her.  " Doing 
wrong  to  do  wrong,  while  we  should  do  wrong 
to  do  right." 

She  smiled  through  her  rising  tears.  "You 
are  a  bad  advocate,"  she  said.  "You  would 
really  have  me  drink  myself  drunk,  Sam  ?" 

"Great  God!"  he  cried,  "don't  you  see  our 
last  chance  is  at  stake?"  He  rose  to  his  whole 
ungainly  height.  He  struck  his  feet  on  the  floor. 
"  This  man  Loper !  "  he  said.  "  This  man  !  This 
drunken  scoundrel !  Oh,  Rebecca,  it's  such  a 
snug  little  business ! "  he  said. 

"  It  is,"  she  replied,  and  burst  into  a  torrent 
of  tears. 

"  The  poultry "  he  continued. 

"  Oh,  don't ! "  she  exclaimed,  sobbing. 

"The  cheeses " 

"  I  can't  bear  it ! "  she  cried,  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

"  Wim  Loper  will  let  the  whole  thing  go  to 
ruin  in  a  few  weeks !    The  poor  chickens " 

She  swung  round  on  him.  "  Get  thee  behind 
me,  Satan  !  "  she  said. 

He  sprang  back,  but  recovering  himself: 
"And  all  because  you  can't  understand  that  a 
madman  must  be  treated  as  mad." 


TEETOTAL  275 

She  sank  her  eyes  to  the  ground.  She  stood 
still  for  some  moments,  trembling  slightly.  He 
could  see  her  lips  move.  Then  she  lifted  her 
glance  and  looked  full  at  him. 

"Sam,"  she  said  softly,  "you  really  would 
have  me  do  this  thing  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  and  went  near  to  her,  he, 
who  had  never  touched  aught  but  her  hand,  and 
put  his  arm  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her 
forehead. 

The  door-handle  turned,  and  the  notary  came 
bustling  in. 

"  Such  a  nuisance,  the  telephone ! "  he  ex- 
plained. "  Always  rings  at  the  most  awkward 
moment.  I  was  just  about  to  remark  that  the 
dead  man's  heirs " 

"Wim  Loper  is  the  dead  man's  heir,  sir,  not 
we,"  put  in  Sam  Roskam. 

The  lawyer  stopped  and  looked  at  them,  from 
one  to  the  other.  He  laughed— a  most  unseemly 
thing. 

"You  don't  want  to — ahem! — get  drunk!" 
he  said. 

"  We  may  go— may  we  not  ? "  suggested 
Rebecca,  with  simple  dignity.  She  drew  her 
shawl  around  her. 

"My  good  madam,  you  surely  don't  think 
that  the  law — law  and  order! — would  compel  a 
respectable  female  like  you  to — to — commit 
herself "     He  paused. 

"  Compel  ?    No,"  said  Rebecca.     "  But " 

"  Quite  so.     I  was  just  about  to  remark,  when 


276  TEETOTAL 

called  away,  that  such  a  condition,  being  immoral, 
is,  of  course,  null  and  void.  Immoral  conditions 
count  as  if  they  were  not  written.  But,  when  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  of  course  it  is  very  natural 
you  should  not  know  that.  Most  people  think 
the  law  is  based  on  immoral  conditions.  They 
wrong  the  law  !  " 

And  he  laughed  again,  quite  cheerfully,  at 
thought  of  the  ups  and  downs  of  legality,  and  also 
at  thought  of  this  highly  respectable  spinster 
drunk. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said,  "  on  your 
escape.     Blue  ribbon,  too  !     Ha!  ha!" 

"You  mean  that  the  money  will  be  ours!" 
questioned  Sam. 

"  Undoubtedly.  It  certainly  is  funny  to  think 
of  the  testator's  feelings,  had  he  known.  When 
he  came  to  me  I  could  have  told  him,  of  course ; 
but  I  solemnly  wrote  this  down."  He  tapped 
the  document.  "  It  was  quite  a  good  joke.  I 
could  hardly  keep  from  laughing.  You  owe  me 
a — ahem  ! — a  very  great  deal,  you  two.  But  for 
my  silence  he'd  have  taken  his  money  elsewhere." 
He  was  glad  to  have  helped  these  two  honest 
souls,  and  he  intended  to  make  them  pay  heavily 
for  it. 

"  But  I  understand  nothing,"  said  Rebecca. 
"  I  cannot  take  my  brother's  money  unless  I 
fulfil  the  conditions  of  his  will."  The  notary 
could  not  get  her  beyond  that.  He  was  surprised 
to  find  what  a  stupid  woman  she  was. 

"  I  know  it  was  very  wicked  and  foolish,"  said 


TEETOTAL  277 

Rebecca  sadly ;  "  but  he  says  Wim  Loper  is  to 
have  the  money  unless  I  do  what  he  wants  me 
to  do,  does  he  not?" 

"  Yes,  but  the  law "    Sam  Roskam  stopped 

the  functionary.  "  We  quite  see  the  law  would 
let  us  have  the  money,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  but  we 
also  see  that  Klaas  would  not."  Rebecca,  in 
her  anguish,  cast  him  a  grateful  glance,  which 
rewarded  him  a  thousandfold.  He  continued,  in 
a  frenzy  of  sacrifice,  tearing  his  new-born  dream 
of  happiness  to  shreds — 

"  And  whose  money  was  it,  Klaas's  or  the 
law's  ? "  He  threw  himself  back  in  a  beautiful 
attitude  of  innocent  inquiry. 

"  My  good  people,  what  a  foolish  way  of 
putting  it ! "  The  lawyer  gazed  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"  Was  the  money  the  law's  or  was  it  Klaas's  ?  " 
persisted  Sam.     Rebecca  nodded. 

"  The  law's,  if  you  choose  to  put  it  so,"  replied 
the  notary  boldly.  "All  property  is  a  civil 
convention.  The  state  sanction  alone  makes  it 
a  reality.  As  you  see  by  this  legal  restriction 
of  testamentation.  The  law,  of  its  own  supreme 
authority,  decides  how  much  of  the  testator's 
wish  it  will  put  aside,  how  much  it  will  retain." 

But  this  was  above  both  auditors'  heads. 
Quite  stupidly  they  replied,  looking  at  each 
other,  ignoring  him :  "  Klaas  says  that  the 
money's  to  be  Loper's."  "He  says  it  quite 
plainly,"  added  Rebecca.  She  sighed,  and  turned 
to  go. 


278  TEETOTAL 

The  lawyer  struck  his  finger-tips  on  the 
writing-table,  annoyed,  and  nowise  admirative, 
for  a  lawyer  sees,  not  right  or  wrong,  but  law. 
"  You  have  a  week  to— excuse  me — to  come  to 
your  senses,"  he  said. 

Outside  the  door  Rebecca  gave  Roskam  her 
hand.  "  Let  me  go  alone  now,  please,"  she  said. 
"  Come  Saturday  evening  ! "  And  each  of  them 
went  a  different  way,  carrying,  in  a  heavy-laden 
heart,  sad  and  sweet  thoughts  of  the  other. 

Rebecca  took  posession  of  her  dead  brother's 
house.  She  must  keep  it  for  the  next  heir, 
drunken  Wim  Loper,  who  lived  thirty  miles  off, 
in  the  city,  having  made  this  little  country  town 
too  hot  for  himself.  The  lawyer  might  wait,  if 
he  chose.  The  chickens  should  not  suffer  mean- 
while. The  one  thing  she  dreaded  was  that 
strangers  should  hear  of  this  scandal  her  brother 
had  brought  on  himself  and  on  her. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  whole  town  knew 
all  about  it,  every  detail  and  some  more,  that 
afternoon.  And  nine-tenths  of  the  population 
praised  her  and  Sam  openly  for  their  splendid 
behaviour,  and  seven-eighths  thought  both  of 
them  fools. 

Rebecca  stopped  indoors,  and  kept  almost 
out  of  sight  for  the  next  day  or  two.  A  stream 
of  inquirers  and  inquisitives  poured  into  the 
little  shop.  The  shop-boy  drove  a  roaring 
trade — for  Wim  Loper.  Rebecca  wrote  down 
every  penny  plainly,  and  hunted  up  a  lost 
farthing  until  she  was  green  in  the  face.     The 


TEETOTAL  279 

shop-boy  hungered  for  the  coming  of  Wim 
Loper.  Rebecca,  who  had  obtained  brief  leave 
from  her  asylum,  undoubtedly  longed  also  for 
the  end.  She  wanted  to  be  back  in  her  own 
work,  now  permanently  her  life-occupation. 
She  wrote  to  the  notary  again,  and  urged  him  to 
take  the  necessary  steps.  The  minister's  wife 
said  that  all  things  were  wisely  ordered.  If 
Brunting  had  not  had  the  idea  of  that  wicked 
will,  the  asylum  would  have  lost  its  admirable 
matron.  "  We  miss  you  ;  we  really  miss  you," 
she  said.  The  town  talked  incessantly.  People 
who  had  seen  Loper  in  the  city  reported  that 
the  happy  heir  in  spe  was  having  a  gorgeous 
time.  Not  unmixed  with  acutest  anxiety  lest 
Rebecca — or,  Sam,  at  any  rate — should  repent 
of  so  foolish  a  decision  before  the  time  was  out. 
It  was  a  solution  the  notary  had  suggested,  that 
Rebecca,  if  her  scruples  really  proved  invincible, 
should  "  repudiate  "  the  inheritance,  while  Sam, 
getting  drunk  or  not,  as  he  chose,  could  thus 
succeed  to  the  whole  little  property  and  marry 
her.  Wim  Loper,  already  an  inebriate  wreck, 
was  torn  to  the  ground  by  this  horrible  incerti- 
tude. "They'll  give  in  at  the  last  moment,"  he 
said.  He  resolved  not  to  be  sober  one  hour 
until  after  the  fateful  limit  was  passed. 

The  limit  was  Sunday.  On  Saturday,  two 
days  after  the  interview  with  the  notary,  Sam 
Roskam  crept  to  the  dead  man's  house,  to  his 
customary  seat  in  the  parlour,  at  the  usual 
evening    hour.      The    empty    arm-chair    stood 


280  TEETOTAL 

against  the  wall.  The  cat  sat  before  the  stove, 
licking  her  paw  persistently.  On  the  table  stood 
the  spinster's  tea,  and  a  glass  of  milk  for  Sam. 

"  Puss ! "  said  Sam,  stooping  to  scratch  the 
cat's  head,  "  Puss !  " 

The  cat  neither  welcomed  those  that  had 
returned,  nor  sought  for  those  that  were  de- 
parted. She  had  rubbed  herself  against  the  legs 
of  Rebecca's  chair,  if  that  be  supposed  to  mean 
anything.  She  now  licked  sedately  on.  Her 
pink  tongue  was  very  warm  and  alive  in  the 
sombre  silence. 

"  Drink  your  milk,  Sam,"  said  Rebecca  at 
last.  He  sipped  it,  giving  some,  in  a  saucer,  to 
the  cat. 

"  To-morrow  it's  over,"  said  Rebecca,  with  a 
deep-drawn  sigh.  "  I  expect  Wim  Loper  to- 
morrow." 

She  furbished  her  favourite  little  brass  kettle 
gently  with  her  soft  pocket-handkerchief.  She 
had  given  it  to  her  brother,  for  the  evening  tea- 
drinking,  many  years  ago.  It  was  the  thing  she 
had  regretted  most,  beside  the  cat,  when  he 
drove  her  forth.  She  had  re-found  it,  much 
battered  by  the  housekeeper,  and  she  had  spent 
her  evenings  in  the  silent  room,  thinking  and 
trying  to  work  out  the  dents,  as  she  talked,  for 
talk's  sake,  to  the  irresponsive  cat. 

Now  she  sat  in  the  old  place  again,  with  Sam 
opposite  her,  as  in  the  old  days,  for  the  last  time. 
When  banished  from  the  beloved  pots  and  pans 
of  her  life-long  solicitude,  she  had  still  known 


TEETOTAL  281 

them  to  be  in  their  accustomed  surroundings, 
performing  their  various  duties  for  Klaas. 

"  Poor  Klaas/'  she  said. 

"That  brute  Loper  will  sell  everything/' 
replied  Sam. 

He  was  a  good  man,  but  he  was  not  equal  to 
pitying  Klaas. 

Rebeeca's  mouth  twitched.  She  closed  her 
eyes,  not  to  see  the  polished  mahogany  cup- 
board, the  gilt  vases  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"  Klaas  has  foreseen  all  that.  He  wished  it 
so,"  she  murmured. 

"Not  he,"  answered  Sam.  "He  was  abso- 
lutely certain  we'd  get  drunk ;  never  doubted  it. 
He  couldn't  have  imagined  any  one  letting  money 
go  like  that.  And  he  simply  put  in  Loper's  name 
because  he  thought  that'd  Ggg  us  on.  The  idea 
of  Loper  having  your  things !  And,  besides,  I 
dare  say  there  was  a  touch  of  sympathy  between 
him  and  Loper,  towards  the  end,  because " 

"  Don't,"  said  Rebecca. 

"He  didn't  know  what  a  good  woman  you 
were,  Rebecca.  He  never  could  have  had  an  idea 
of  that,  had  he  tried !  " 

"  Don't,"  said  Rebecca. 

He  sat  gazing  at  her.  Presently  he  poured 
out  fresh  milk  for  the  cat. 

It  was  as  they  sat  thus,  with  the  weight  of 
their  grim  destiny  heavy  upon  them,  that  a  loud 
clang  of  the  shop-bell  recalled  them  to  to-day. 
Ten  o'clock  had  struck.  No  customer  could  come 
at  that  hour. 


282  TEETOTAL 

Sam  Roskam  went  to  the  door  and  came  back 
with  the  notary.  Rebecca  put  up  a  thin  hand, 
when  she  saw  the  lawyer,  to  ward  him  off. 

"Don't  tempt  me  any  more!"  she  cried. 
u  Leave  me !  Leave  me  in  peace !  I — I  have 
suffered  enough.     Oh,  leave  me,  for  God's  sake ! " 

But  the  notary  answered :  "  Are  you  not  a 
near  relation  of  Loper's  ?    Tell  me  quick ! " 

"  Not  a  near  relation,  but  a  relation  certainly. 
I " 

"  Wim  Loper  is  dead ! "  cried  the  lawyer.  His 
voice  trembled,  in  spite  of  his  contempt  for  the 
tremble  in  a  voice.  "  The  news  is  all  over  the 
town ;  the  carrier  brought  it  an  hour  ago.  He 
lurched  off  his  staircase  this  morning  and  broke 
his  skull." 

"  But  what  difference  does  that  make  ? "  ex- 
claimed Sam.  "  Rebecca's  a  relation,  but  she's 
not  his  heir!" 

"  You're  a  good  lawyer,  my  friend/'  replied 
the  notary,  smiling.  "  Better  than  poor  Miss 
Brunting  here.  Sit  down  calmly  and  I'll  explain." 
He  himself  took  a  chair,  overturning  the  cat. 

"  Two  months  ago  Wim  Loper  came  to  me  and 
made  a  will.  Who  induced  him  to  do  that  I 
cannot  say.  He  said  drink  had  been  his  curse 
all  his  life,  and  he  shed  bitter  tears  over  it,  and 
finally  he  declared  that  in  his  death  at  least  he 
would  prove  an  example  to  others— he  little 
guessed  how  truly — and  he  bade  me  leave  what- 
ever he  possessed  to  those  of  his  relations  who 
were  teetotallers,  excluding  every  one  else." 


TEETOTAL  283 

Rebecca  did  not  speak,  but  Sam  said  :  "There 
may  be  many.  The  number  has  increased  greatly 
of  years ! " 

The  lawyer  answered:  "I  should  say  it  is 
hardly  likely.  There  will  be  any  number  who  now 
say  they  are  teetotallers,  but,  remember,  they  must 
have  signed  the  pledge  before  this  day,  Satur- 
day, the  eleventh.  Mejuffrouw  Brunting,  you 
probably  know  all  these  relations,  more  or  less  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  know  all,  or  know  about  them," 
replied  Rebecca  dully. 

"  Do  you  think  any  of  them  are  possibly  blue- 
ribbonites?" 

Rebecca  answered  slowly  :  "  I  know  they  are 
not,  for — I  have  looked  up  every  one  of  their 
names  in  the  lists." 

The  notary  laughed  loudly.  "  You  might  have 
spared  yourself  the  trouble ! "  he  cried.  "  I  never, 
in  all  my  life,  met  with  a  blue-ribbonite,  except 
parsons  and  young  ladies — and,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
you!"  He  waved  his  hand  to  both.  "  That's  why 
I  put  in  '  blue-ribbonite.'  Purposely  put  in  '  blue- 
ribbonite,'  and  not  total  abstainer,  or  any  of  that 
vague  rubbish.  Always  be  definite  in  law- 
business.  And  when  I  heard  of  Loper's  death 
I  couldn't  sit  still.  I  had  to  run  across  here  and 
tell  you.  You  are  Wim  Loper's  heir,  Mejuffrouw 
Brunting,  and  no  other,  and  I  heartily  congratu- 
late you  ! "  He  grasped  her  hand,  and  also  Sam 
Roskam's.  "  There's  a  Providence  for  drunkards 
and  for  fools,"  he  said.  "  Not  much  difficulty  in 
seeing  which  is  yours ! " 


284  TEETOTAL 

Then  he  went  away,  laughing ;  and  the  shop- 
bell  tinkled  after  him. 

Sam  Roskam  took  the  hand  which  the  lawyer 
had  dropped.  He  gazed  down,  almost  reproach- 
fully, at  the  bit  of  blue  in  his  button-hole. 

"To  think  the  blue-ribbon  should  bring 
money ! "  he  said.  "  It's  a  fine  cause,  all  the 
same !  " 

"  I  suppose  that  farthing  I  couldn't  account  for 
doesn't  matter  now,"  replied  Rebecca.  "  At  least, 
not  so  much,"  she  corrected  herself  after  a  pause. 


PLAY 


HA!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!" 
Bandelbos  rolled  about  in  the  garden, 
and  roared  himself  blue  in  the  face.  He  sank 
down  on  the  bench,  exhausted.  There  was  only 
one  bench  :  it  was  not  a  big  garden.  "  Ha !  Ha ! 
Ha !  "  he  gasped. 

His  timid  little  wife  collected  her  sewing- 
things,  which  he  had  scattered  as  he  bumped 
down  beside  her.  She  had  to  stoop  to  pick  up 
her  work-basket,  and  she  felt  with  a  thin  hand 
for  a  reel  which  had  rolled  under  the  seat,  far 
out  of  reach.  She  was  "  bronchial."  She  sat 
up,  flushed,  and  coughed. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Tell  me  the  joke, 
Hieronymus!"  For  she  always  asked  him  to 
tell  her  the  joke,  and  she  never  saw  it.  That 
was  one  of  the  chief  trials  of  her  life. 

The  fat  builder — a  picture  of  coarse  prosperity 
— pushed  his  bowler  hat  from  his  broad  brow, 
and  mopped  his  face.  He  mopped  it  with  a 
coloured  pocket-handkerchief.  He  had  a  yellow 
nankin  waistcoat  and  a  lot  of  seals.  And  he  had 
bristly  brown  side-whiskers  and  a  very  blue 
chin. 


286  PLAY 

"Jerry!"  said  Hieronymus.  "Hi!  Hi!  Hi! 
Jerry's  been  telling  me  he's  a  man ! " 

Jerry's  mother  gave  a  little  gasp.  She  sewed 
a  few  nervous  stitches.  Then  she  said,  with  her 
eyes  on  her  work,  "  So  he  is." 

"  Pooh  I "  said  Bandelbos.  He  had  governed 
his  wife  during  more  than  twenty  years  by  that 
"pooh!"  He  had  instituted  it  at  once — in  the 
honeymoon,  nay,  possibly  during  their  court- 
ship—and, perceiving  its  immediate  efficacy,  had 
stuck  to  it  ever  since.  The  thing,  when  you 
come  to  look  at  it,  is  painfully  simple.     Pooh  ! 

When  she  ventured  to  speak  again,  it  was  to 
put  the  very  natural  question  :  "  And  what  did 
you  say  in  reply  ?  " 

"  I  said,  l  Go  and  play ! ! "  he  made  answer. 
And  he  shouted  again,  his  fat  sides  shaking. 
There  was  no  affectation  about  it;  his  laughter 
came  bubbling  up  from  some  hidden  source  of  fun. 

"  Do  you  call  twenty-three  a  child  ? "  she 
asked  at  last,  almost  testily. 

"  Twenty-two,  if  you  please.  You  never  can 
be  accurate,  Nella.  Jerry  won't  be  twenty-three 
till  the  sixteenth  of  next  month.  You  see,  I  know 
even  better  than  you." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  she  answered.  "  Well,  is 
twenty-two  a  child  ?  " 

"Not  as  years  go,  perhaps.  Though  it  isn't 
much  of  manhood,  anyway.  But  there's  a  great 
deal  between  a  child  and  a  full-grown  man. 
Jerry!"  Again  he  exploded.  "Fancy  Jerry 
telling  me  he  was  a  man  ! " 


PLAY  287 

"  What  made  him  say  it  ?  "  She  had  got  to  it 
at  last,  for  that  was  what  she  really  wanted  to 
know. 

"Jerry,"  he  went  on,  not  heeding  her  question, 
''who  has  never  done  anything  all  his  life  but 
fiddle  and  play  the  fool." 

"He  fiddles  beautifully,"  expostulated  the 
mother. 

"  I  don't  deny  it.  But,  fancy  a  man  fiddling  ! 
I  said  to  him  :  '  Go  and  play ! ' "  From  a  top- 
window  of  the  square-built  house  came  sounds 
of  long-drawn  squeaking.  "  And  you  see,"  said 
the  father,  "  he's  followed  my  advice." 

"  He  always  was  an  obedient  son,"  said  Jerry's 
mother. 

"  I'm  not  denying  it.  Though  this  time  I 
should  say,  while  not  purtending  to  know  much 
of  musicals,  it's  tantrums.  Yes,  I  should  say 
distinctly  it  was  tantrums!"  The  violin  gave 
a  howl.  "  You  can't  deny  I've  always  been  a 
indulgent  father  to  Jerry ! " 

"  I  don't  deny  nothing,"  replied  Juffrouw 
Bandelbos.  And  that  is  always  such  a  difficult 
attitude  to  encounter  in  a  woman,  even  with  a 
"  Pooh !  " 

"Nor  a  indulgent  husband  to  you,"  continued 
the  affluent  head  of  the  family,  warming  pleasantly 
to  his  subject.  "  I've  slaved  and  slaved,  earning 
your  bread,  in  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  ay,  and 
your  butter,  ay,  and  your  cake,  Juffrouw !  You've 
never  wanted  for  cake !  " 

"I'm  not  denying  of  nothing,  Hieronymus." 


288  PLAY 

"Nor  I  for  sweat,"  continued  Hieronymus 
agreeably.  "  I've  worked  the  skin  off  my  bones, 
while  Jerry  has  just  fiddled  and  fooled." 

"  Oh,  not  the  skin,  Hieronymus ! "  She  cast 
a  glance  at  her  husband's  fat  hands. 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it,  if  you're  so  thin.  It  is 
not  for  want  of  food,"  he  answered,  aggrieved. 
"And  I  can't  help  it  if  Jerry  ain't  a  man.  It's  not 
for  want  of  money  spent  on  his  schooling. 
Schooling !  Much  good  his  schooling  did  him  ! 
I  bet  you  he  don't  know  the  difference  between 
lead  and  zinc ! " 

She  sighed.     A  deep  sigh. 

"  Nor  do  you,"  said  her  husband. 

"Yes  I  do,  Hieronymus." 

"  Well,  what  is  the  difference  ?  " 

She  paused  before  her  careful  reply.  "  Why, 
lead  is  just  lead,  of  course,"  she  said,  sewing, 
"  and  zinc  is  zinc." 

"And  a  fiddle's  a  fiddle,"  said  Hieronymus. 
"  And  a  fool  is  just  simply  a  fool." 

"The  boy's  a  good  boy,"  persisted  the  little 
woman. 

"  For  a  boy,  yes.  That's  right :  let's  talk  of 
boys,  I'm  not  dispraising  my  boy.  He's  a  good 
lad,  in  his  way,  which  isn't  mine,  and  I  can't  think 
where  he  got  his  fiddle-faddling  from." 

"When  you  was  barely  twenty,  Hiero- 
nymus  " 

He  caught  the  words  off  her  lips.  "  When  I 
was  barely  twenty  I  was  took  into  my  uncle's 
business.     And  I  worked  sixteen  hours  of  the 


PLAY  289 

twenty-four.  /  didn't  play.  It  was  bricks  and 
mortar  for  me  all  day,  Nella,  and  very  little 
straw!  Well,  I've  made  my  modest  pile."  He 
rattled  something  in  his  trousers  pocket;  it 
wasn't  loose  cash ;  it  was  something  even  better, 
keys.  He  rose  to  his  legs.  "And  Jerry  can 
fiddle,"  he  said.  "Lord  knows  I  would  rather 
have  had  him  an  honest  builder,  making  money, 
like  me."  He  walked  away,  but  by  the  swing — 
Jerry's  swing— he  halted  and  turned  to  her, 
laughing :  "Jerry  a  man ! "  he  said.  "  Fancy  his 
saying  that  to  me!" 

She  gathered  her  work  up  to  her  bosom  and 
came  hurriedly  after  him.  "  But  what  made  him 
say  it  ?  "  she  cried. 

He  looked  at  her.  "  You  can't  guess  ?  He 
hasn't  told  you  nothing?"  And,  as  she  shook 
her  head  :  "  Then  he  ought  to.  He  ought  to  go 
to  his  mother,  the  baby !  Why,  he  swings  on 
this  swing  for  hours,  till  it  makes  me  sick  to  look 
at  him.  A  'man'  on  a  swing,  swinging,  for  a 
hard-working,  honest  builder  to  see  ! " 


II 

She  limped  back — she  had  a  slight  limp,  more 
a  stumble  than  a  lameness — she  limped  back 
with  her  work-basket,  and  the  over-hanging  bit 
of  her  husband's  clothing,  along  the  narrow  path 
between  the  apple-trees  to  the  house.  It  was  all 
neat  and  prosperous  and  well  kept.  The  square 
building  looked   fresh  from   a  toy-shop.     And 


290  PLAY 

everything  about  it  was  spick  and  span.  She 
and  her  husband  saw  after  that :  he  had  nothing 
to  complain  of  in  his  housekeeper.  Nor  she  in 
the  man  who  earned  her  "  cake."  They  jogged 
on  very  comfortably,  and  Jerry,  their  only  child, 
delighted  his  mother,  and  amused  his  father, 
by  chiefly  playing  the  fiddle. 

The  mother  now  stumped  up  the  stairs  in  the 
direction  of  the  screeching.  It  was  a  call  to  her, 
impulsive,  imperious,  withal  appealing ! 

As  she  opened  the  door  the  music  rushed  out 
at  her,  louder  and  faster ;  it  hurried  on,  while  she 
stood  waiting ;  it  fell  over  itself,  as  it  were,  in  its 
haste  to  get  at  her,  and  away  from  the  performer, 
excited,  self-conscious,  conscious  of  her  pre- 
sence.    It  stopped  with  a  yell. 

Jerry  put  down  his  violin  very  gently  and 
faced  his  mother.  Undoubtedly  he  was  boyish- 
looking  for  his  age,  very  fair  and  curly,  pink  and 
white,  with  clear  blue  eyes  and  a  rather  dreamy 
look.     He  said  nothing. 

"Jerry,  you  haven't  been  quarrelling  with 
father?" 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  Have  I  ever  quarrelled 
with  father  ?  I  wish  father  would  quarrel  with 
me.     He  only  pats  me  on  the  back  and  laughs." 

"  Father  isn't  quarrelsome,"  said  mother. 

"  I'm  not  a  child,"  said  Jerry.  She  sat  down 
beside  him  on  his  black  horsehair  sofa.  "Tell 
me  what  it  was  all  about !  " 

"Of  course  you  know  I'm  in  love  with  Hettie 
Klop?" 


PLAY  291 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  You  never  said  a 
word  about  it." 

"Oh,  mother  knows."  He  looked  down, 
striking  his  fiddle-stick  against  the  tip  of  his 
boot.  Then  he  looked  up,  full  into  her  tired 
eyes.    She  laughed. 

"You  knew  I  was  in  love,"  he  said.  "Why, 
my  violin  would  have  told  you  that." 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  she  answered,  with  a  glad 
light  on  her  face,  and  a  sad  catch  in  her  voice. 

"  And  with  whom  else  could  it  have  been  but 
with  Hettie?" 

"With  a  dozen  other  girls  that  would  have 
pleased  your  father  better.  Why,  the  village  is 
full  of  pretty  girls." 

"I  never  saw  another  except  Hettie,"  he 
answered.     "  Who  are  the  other  pretty  girls  ?  " 

"  It's  no  use  mentioning  them  just  now,"  she 
said  sorrowfully.  "  Poor  drunken  Klop  the 
tailor's  daughter  is  hardly  a  fit  sweetheart  for 
Bandelbos's  son ! " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  marry  the  tailor,"  he  replied. 

"  Marry !  How  you  hurry  on,  child  !  Child, 
you  take  my  breath  away ! " 

The  reiteration  annoyed  him  :  "  I'm  not  a 
child ! "  Then  he  threw  his  arms  round  her 
neck :  "  Oh,  mother,  I  love  her  so !  " 

That  melted  her  completely,  if  indeed  there 
was  still  anything  left  to  melt.  "  You  should 
have  her,"  she  said,  crying  a  little,  "  if  I  could 
help  you.  But  you  can't  expect  father  to  take 
that  view." 


292  PLAY 

"  I  tried  to  reason  with  father,  but  he  only 
ran  away,  laughing.  He  laughed  all  the  way 
downstairs,  crying  ' Child!'  I  could  hear  him 
laughing  in  the  garden.  Father's  brought  me 
up  all  wrong,  mother;  you  know  he  has.  He 
ought  to  have  made  me  learn  a  trade." 

"  Ah,  that's  what  children  always  say  in  the 
end  when  they've  had  their  own  way,"  replied 
his  mother,  sadly.  "  You  didn't  want  to  learn  a 
trade,  Jerry;  you  wanted  to  play  about.  'Oh, 
let  him  go  and  play,'  said  father,  'he'll  always 
have  enough  to  eat.' " 

Jerry  kicked  the  leg  of  the  table. 

"  Your  father  earns  a  lot  of  money,  building 
of  his  houses,  Jerry." 

"  Such  houses !  Heaven  forgive  him  ! " 
thought  the  son.  But  aloud  he  said :  "  I  can't 
help  that."  Nor  could  he.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  fiddled  well,  and  his  father  built  badly. 
There  are  still  plenty  of  good  artists  in  little 
Holland,  but  the  building,  as  any  one  can  see 
who  walks  the  streets,  has  all  gone  absolutely 
mad  and  bad.  Designedly  and  dishonestly  bad 
and  mad. 

"And  what  trade  could  you  have  learned?" 
continued  his  mother.  "Your  father'd  have 
been  only  too  glad  if  you'd  gone  into  the  work- 
shop with  him." 

"  True,"  said  Jerry.  u  I  can  only  fiddle,  and 
that  not  well  enough  to  be  of  any  good." 

"  You  fiddle  beautiful :  you  know  you  do," 
replied  his  mother.    What  could  she  do  but  kiss 


PLAY  293 

him?  He  looked  so  handsome  and  so  discon- 
solate. He  was  a  dear,  dear  boy.  In  the  dulness 
of  her  monotone  existence  he  shone  like  an 
unclouded  star. 

"  Come,  mother  ! " — he  shook  himself  together. 
'/I'll  play  you  something  pretty."  He  took  up 
his  violin  and  he  played  her  Raff's  well-known 
Cavatina.  It  is  so  simple  and  sympathetic — 
long  before  the  little  piece  was  finished  it  had 
drawn  fresh  tears  from  her  eyes.  But  the  tears, 
if  analysed,  would  perhaps  have  proved  rather 
selfish  tears.  No  mother  can  feel  altogether 
happy  to  see  the  new  light,  however  radiant, 
spreading  all  over  the  heart  of  her  child. 

Ill 

But  father  appears  at  dinner,  and  he  takes  a 
practical  view  of  things,  being  a  successful  busi- 
ness man  :  he  shows  an  immediate  interest  in  the 
food,  and  a  more  desultory,  but  no  less  persistent, 
one  in  his  son's  future.  When  he  remarks,  plea- 
santly, that  the  sheep's  feet  is  hard  and  the 
sheep's  head  (with  a  nod  at  his  son's)  soft,  even 
a  good-tempered  lad  may  surely  find  father 
rather  trying.  Jerry  had  the  sweetest  of  natures. 
He  scowled,  in  silence,  at  his  plate. 

"  Now,  Jerry,"  said  father,  rising,  and  wiping 
his  thick  lips  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  "  I  must 
be  off  to  my  work  again.     You  go  and  play ! " 

"Well,  I  work  hard  enough  at  my  riddle," 
said  Jerry.     "  I  assure  you  four  hours  a  day  is 


294  PLAY 

no  joke."  Once  upon  a  time  he  had  insisted  on 
speaking  of  his  "violin"  only  to  his  parents,  but 
he  had  given  that  up  as  an  affectation,  like  the 
honest,  simple  lad  he  was. 

"Yes,"  said  Hieronymus  grimly,  "so  the 
gentleman  that  I'm  building  for,  Mr.  Zondervan, 
works  at  heraldry.  Heraldry  he  calls  it.  It's 
names  of  people  that  are  dead  and  done  for,  and 
when  they  were  born  and  when  they  died.  You 
have  to  be  dead— or  born :  that's  all.  You 
needn't  be  anything  else.  I  can  see  him  scrib- 
bling, through  the  glass  door,  for  hours,  and  I'm 
building  a  room  to  put  all  the  names  of  the 
people  in.  He  comes  out,  all  white  and  fagged, 
to  look  at  the  building.  'Bandelbos,'  he  says, 
'  I've  worked  till  I'm  beat.'    He  calls  that  '  work.' " 

"  So  does  Jerry— fiddle  till  he's  beat,"  said  the 
mother. 

"More  fool  he  when  he  can  go  and  play. 
Haven't  I  worked  all  my  life  so  that  Jerry  might 
play  as  long  as  he  chooses?  I  wonder  how 
many  fathers'd  do  as  much?  If  you  want  to 
work,  Jerry,  come  into  the  business.  Time 
enough  then  to  talk  of  your  being  a  man." 

"  I  couldn't  build  the  right  sort  of  houses," 
said  Jerry,  humble  up  to  a  point. 

"  I'd  see  to  that.  You'd  have  to  serve  a  long 
apprenticeship.  You'd  have  to  learn  a  lot,  child ; 
you  wouldn't  like  that."  He  grew  meditative. 
"  There,  there,"  he  said  in  a  changed  voice,  "  it's 
no  use  talking.  You'll  never  be  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, boy ;  thank  Heaven.     I've  always  worked. 


PLAY  295 

There'll  always  be  enough  to  eat.  Go  and 
play!"  He  walked  out  at  the  one  door,  and 
Jerry,  unable  to  bear  his  mother's  tender  gaze, 
walked  out  at  the  other. 

Jerry,  as  is  the  habit  of  his  love-smitten  kind, 
went  straight  to  the  cause  of  his  sorrow.  And, 
as  he  sat  with  her  in  the  honeysuckle  arbour, 
under  the  dead  and  yet  fragrant  honeysuckle, 
he  told  her  how  good  and  comforting  his  mother 
was,  and  how  good  and  vexatious  his  father. 

"  But  I'm  not  a  child — I'm  a  man,"  said  Jerry. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  assented  Hettie.  And  her  gaze 
rested  on  him  admiringly. 

"I'll  prove  to  him  somehow  that  I  can  do 
more  than  play.     I'll  show  him  I  can  work." 

"  Dear  Jerry,  I  wish  you  would,"  said  sweet, 
pretty  Hettie.     "  And  father  thinks  so  too." 

"  What,  does  your  father  talk  too  ?  And  what 
does  he  say?"  Jerry  had  made  sure,  under 
every  circumstance,  of  the  impecunious  tailor's 
eager  consent. 

" Father  says" — Hettie  fingered  her  apron. 
She  looked  the  sort  of  picture — warm,  alive — 
that  any  man  goes  mad  over.  "  Father  says  that 
he  won't  have  us  marry  till — oh,  Jerry ! — you've 
a  means  of  earning  a  livelihood." 

"Isn't  my  father  a  livelihood?"  asked  Jerry, 
at  himself,  as  it  were,  in  his  bitterness  of  heart. 

Hettie  shook  her  golden  head;  it  shone  in 
the  sunshine.  "No;  father  says  a  man  must 
have  a  serious  aim  in  life.  Life  is  work,  not 
play,  says  father." 


296  PLAY 

"  Does  he,  indeed  ?  Now,  my  father  says,  for 
some  people,  like  me,  life's  all  play,  not  work." 
He  ground  his  teeth  at  thought  of  the  tipsy  tailor 
making  difficulties  about  him,  the  son  of  Hiero- 
nymus  Bandelbos!  Even  the  pauper  tailor! 
His  father  was  right!  Play  the  fiddle!  Play 
the  fool ! 

He  went  home  early,  in  dudgeon,  vexed  at 
himself.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak 
of  the  subject  which  had  brought  him,  the 
subject  which  that  morning  had  still  seemed 
so  full  of  interest,  the  theatrical  performance 
of  the  amateur  club  to  which  both  he  and 
Hettie  belonged.  In  fact,  he  was  the  soul  of 
the  whole  undertaking,  the  manager,  director, 
and  star  of  the  Village  Players.  But  now,  sud- 
denly, the  business  seemed  hateful  to  him.  He 
could  not  endure  to  mention  the  word  Play! 
Players !  Play  it  so.  You  play  the  heroine.  I 
play— Play !    Play ! 

He  slunk  back,  frowning.  He  found  his 
father,  after  supper,  in  a  far  more  serious  mind. 
"Sit  ye  down,  Jerry,"  said  Bandelbos,  in  his 
arm-chair  and  dressing-gown,  over  his  pipe, 
"and  listen  to  me.  There  must  be  no  nonsense, 
so  I'll  speak  very  plain.  I'll  support  ye  and 
willing,  as  I've  done  till  now,  so  long  as  you're 
a  boy.  But  there  must  be  no  talk  of  love-making 
and  marrying.  Boys  don't  marry.  Men  marry. 
And  men  work." 

"  I  don't  know  how.  You  never  taught  me ! " 
cried  Jerry. 


PLAY  297 

"I'll  teach  you,  when  you  want  to  learn. 
You  come  to  me,  and  I'll  teach  you."  The 
builder  paused  and  took  a  few  thoughtful  puffs 
at  his  pipe.  Then:  "And  if  you  do  want  to  be 
a  fine  gentleman,  and  never  attempt  a  stroke  of 
work,  I'm  not  gainsaying  you.  There,  had  ever 
lad  a  more  indulgent  parent?  But  then  you'll 
bide  my  time  to  marry,  young  man,  and  you'll 
not  choose  a  penniless  wife."  He  rose  to  his 
slippered  feet.  "  Hettie  Klop ! "  he  cried,  "  Hettie 
Klop  to  spend  my  money!  What  a  fool  old 
Klop  must  think  me!  No,  not  such  a  fool, 
old  Klop!" 

"  He  won't  have  me,"  said  Jerry. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"Not  unless  I  work  at  a  trade." 

Hieronymus  stopped  laughing. 

"  Well,  it  looks  as  if  you'd  better  begin,"  he 
said,  and  took  up  his  evening  paper.  He  peeped 
over  the  top  of  it.  "  Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said, 
"you  just  go  on  playing.  Baby!  And  marry 
among  your  equals  six  years  hence ! " 

IV 

That  disposed  of  the  subject  for  the  present. 
Neither  Jerry  nor  his  parents  reverted  to  it. 
The  exigencies  of  the  young  man's  official  position 
compelled  him,  willy  nilly,  to  devote  a  great  part 
of  his  "  spare  "  time  (the  time  not  reserved  for 
musical  "study."  A  snort  from  Hieronymus) — 
to  devote  a  great  part  of  this  time  to  preparations 


298  PLAY 

for  the  coming  performance.  It  was  the  most 
important  event  of  the  village  winter,  the  open- 
ing, so  to  speak,  of  the  season.  The  rustic  actors 
were  keenly  alive  to  their  distinctive  responsi- 
bilities—still more  so  to  their  individual  require- 
ments. No  professional  company  could  have 
wanted  more,  or  worse,  or  so  persistently.  During 
the  next  few  weeks  Jerry  tore  about  like  one  dis- 
tracted. It  was  "  Jerry  "  this  and  "  Jerry"  that, 
at  all  hours,  and  on  every  trifling  subject.  He 
just  found  time,  in  the  midst  of  his  unalterable 
music  lesson,  to  confide  to  his  friend  and  teacher 
from  Overstad  the  story  of  his  love  and  his 
despair.  "  If  only  I  were  good  for  something," 
he  lamented,  "  I'd  soon  show  father  how  sick  I 
am  of '  play.'  But  I'll  stick  to  Hettie,  whatever 
happens  !  And  I'll  work  for  her,  somehow,  some 
day." 

Hieronymus,  when  he  heard  of  the  play-acting, 
had  uttered  a  sound  between  a  grunt  and  a 
guffaw.  "You  may  play  at  love-making  with 
her  as  much  as  you  like,  boy.  But  not  the  real 
thing — mind  !  or  you'll  have  to  work  ! "  For,  in 
the  play — a  comedy  from  the  German — Jerry,  a 
dashing  cavalry  lieutenant,  Ulrich  von  Sabelblitz, 
wooed  and  finally  won  Hettie,  the  young  "Com- 
tesse  "  Adelgunde ;  he  wooed  her  through  four 
long  acts,  and  only  won  her,  amid  general 
approval,  at  the  end  of  the  fifth.  The  "curtain," 
in  fact,  was  a  benediction  from  everybody  who 
had  not  died  in  the  piece.  Jerry  didn't  think  he 
would  have  much  difficulty  with  the  love-scenes, 


PLAY  299 

except  in  so  far  as  they  came  too  naturally. 
"  Don't  you  make  them  too  natural,  child,"  said 
his  mother.  She  said  it  several  times.  She 
looked  very  anxious.  "  Never  you  fear,  mother," 
he  answered  at  last,  savagely.  "  I'll  take  precious 
good  care  not  to  compromise  Hettie.  Don't  I 
know  I  can't  marry  her  in  any  case?"  Much 
worried,  about  footlights  and  scenery  and  half 
a  hundred  other  things,  he  went  over  to  Overstad, 
on  the  very  morning  before  the  performance,  for 
the  precious  lesson  from  the  maestro,  which  he 
could  not  and  would  not  miss.  He  came  back 
with  a  face  transfigured,  and  leapt  and  sang  about 
the  house.  "  Why,  what  possesses  the  child  ?  " 
said  his  mother,  as  they  sat  down  to  a  hasty  meal 
before  the  entertainment.  "  All  this  excitement 
about  to-night  ?  " 

"  All  this  pleasure  from  a  bit  of  play-acting  !  " 
said  Hieronymus.     "  What  a  player  you  are  ! " 

"No,  no.  I  don't  understand.  What  is  it, 
Jerry  ?  "  said  the  mother,  suppressing  her  nervous 
cough. 

"  Father,"  began  Jerry  abruptly,  "  you'd  have 
let  me  marry  Hettie  if  I  could  have  supported 
her  myself?" 

"  No,"  said  Hieronymus.  "  It's  the  other 
father,  as  I  understood,  would  have  let  you 
marry  then."    And  he  laughed. 

"  But  you've  nothing  against  the  girl  ?  " 

"  She's  not  a  fit  match  for  you,  Jerry.  Don't 
you  compromise  yourself." 

"  Don't  you  compromise  the  girl,  Jerry,"  said 


300  PLAY 

his  mother.  Later  on  she  followed  her  son  into 
the  passage.  "  Be  careful  to-night,  Jerry !  A 
girl's  reputation  is  a  very  delicate  thing.  Don't 
you  do  her  an  injury,  as  you  never  could  put 
right  again.  She's  a  good  girl.  Don't  you  act 
too  natural.  She  never  could  hold  up  her  head 
again  in  the  village  if  you  was  to — how  did  father 
say? — countermand  her.  Remember,  it's  only 
play." 

He  laughed  gaily,  and  he  kissed  her.  "  No, 
mother,  I  promise  you,  I  shan't  countermand 
her.  Thanks,  mother  dear,  for  your  advice."  He 
turned  in,  closing  the  front  door,  "And  thank 
father,  too ! "  The  door  banged.  She  sighed 
wearily.  "  I'm  sure  he  might  do  very  much 
worse,"  she  said.  Then  she  went  to  put  on  her 
best  gown. 


As  the  curtain  rose,  and  Jerry  stepped  forward, 
his  parents'  words  seemed  to  ring  suddenly  in  his 
ears.  He  put  the  thought  back  with  a  gesture 
of  annoyance.  He  could  see  them  sitting,  promi- 
nent among  greater  and  inferior  notabilities,  in  a 
front  row,  with  a  sea  of  faces  behind.  He  turned 
away,  resplendent  in  light  blue  cloth  and  yellow 
braid,  to  a  clatter  and  a  clang  of  sabre  and  spurs. 
"  I  wonder,"  he  began,  "who  that  beautiful  girl  is 
whom  I  saw  as  I  came  up  the  castle  steps  ?"  His 
voice  sounded  as  if  it  were  somebody  else's.  But 
he  soon  got  over  that.  It  soon  sounded  very 
much  like  his  own. 


PLAY  301 

And  through  four  long  acts  he  made  love 
ceaselessly.  He  was  very  much  applauded  all 
along.  "  He  does  it  wonderfully  well,"  said  the 
burgomaster  to  Bandelbos,  who  grinned,  not  too 
sweetly.  "  And  so  naturally/'  added  the  burgo- 
master's lady  to  the  builder's  wife.  The  latter  had 
a  fit  of  coughing  that  really  quite  disturbed  the 
performance.  At  the  end  of  each  act,  when  all  the 
players  came  before  the  curtain  together,  Jerry 
and  Hetty  stood,  a  central  group,  hand  in  hand. 

"  I  suppose  it's  good  play-acting,"  said  Bandel- 
bos to  his  Worship.  "  I  don't  understand  about 
play-acting.  I  understand  about  work.  I  only 
know  that  the  play's  one  thing  and  real  life's 
another.  And  in  real  life  the  play  never  comes 
true." 

The  burgomaster  bent  his  head.  "A  very 
judicious  remark,"  said  the  burgomaster. 

But  towards  the  end  of  the  fifth  act  comes  the 
crisis.  Amid  increasing  excitement  and  in  an 
atmosphere  grown  well-nigh  stifling,  the  audience 
expects  the  gallant  lieutenant  to  come  to  the 
point.  He  has  long  shown  them  and  Adelgunde 
the  state  of  his  feelings.  He  must  now  offer  her 
his  hand  and  his  home,  as  well  as  his  heart.  In 
a  breathless  silence  Ulrich  approached  the  dear 
girl  on  the  sofa. 

"  Hettie,  will  you  be  my  wife  ?"  he  said. 

A  titter  ran  through  the  serried  ranks  in  the 
background,  hastily  suppressed.  A  thrill  of 
general  emotion  conquered  it,  as  Jerry  quickly 
corrected  himself. 


302  PLAY 

"  Adelgunde,  will  you  be  my  wife  ?  I  adore 
you ! "  He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  as  she  con- 
sented ;  he  kissed  her;  he  kissed  her  passionately, 
while  he  clasped  her;  he  kissed  her  again  and 
again. 

A  torrent  of  applause  poured  down  from  pit 
and  gallery,  but  it  died  away  in  the  discomfort  of 
the  front  seats.  Adelgunde  lay  on  Ulrich's  breast, 
because  he  manifestly  held  her  there.  These 
kisses  were  not  mere  stage  kisses. 

"  Look  here ! "  cried  a  rough  voice  from  the 
gangway.     H  This  acting's  too  natural  for  me !  " 

The  front  seats  turned  round.  Klop,  the 
tailor,  was  making  his  way  to  the  front. 

Ulrich  half  released  Adelgunde.  "  Why,  you 
fool ! "  he  cried,  "Aren't  Hettie  and  I  going  to  be 
married  in  a  month  or  two  ?  Don't  disturb  the 
play!  Order,  boys!  Keep  him  back.  Ah, 
Count?"  He  turned  to  the  entering  actor. 
"Your  fair  daughter  has  just  made  me  the 
happiest  of  men ! " 

"  Keep  back,  Klop ;  you're  drunk ! "  said  a 
member  of  the  committee.  The  curtain  fell  amid 
immense,  immeasurable  enthusiasm.  Half  a 
minute  later  two  furious  fathers  and  a  frightened 
mother  were  facing  the  bold  lieutenant,  who  once 
more  held  his  bride  in  his  arms. 

"  Play,  is  it ?  "  cried  the  lieutenant ;  "well,  the 
play's  become  life,  real  life.  Yes,  she's  hopelessly 
compromised,  as  you  say,  Klop,  unless  I  counter- 
mand her,  father,  but  I  won't  countermand  her, 
mother ;  never  you  fear !    Play  ?    I'm  going  to 


PLAY  303 

play  for  her,  father,  and  work  for  her.  The  play's 
become  work.  I'm  to  play  in  the  Overstad 
orchestra,  as  permanent  second  violin,  and  sup- 
port us  both !  My  play's  worth  more,  after  all, 
than  you  ever  thought,  father !  I  shall  play  now 
till  the  end  of  my  days  ! " 

"  You  young  blackguard ! "  "  You  dear  child !  " 
exclaimed  the  father  and  mother.  "  And  what  do 
you  expect  me  to  do?"  spluttered  Bandelbos. 
"  He'll  help  you,  oh,  he'll  help  you,  Jerry," 
coughed  Jerry's  mother.  Said  Bandelbos, 
"Pooh!" 


THE  PROMISE 

THE  day  was  blazing  hot.  Father  and  son 
were  at  work  in  the  open. 

Far  and  wide  stretched  the  yellow  cornfield, 
glittering,  a  golden  ocean,  with;  broad  shafts 
across  it  of  silvery  sheen.  Beyond  lay  the  home- 
stead, half  shrouded  in  lindens,  and  behind  that 
the  green  landscape  was  dotted  with  cows. 

Upon  all  things,  underneath  the  cloudless 
sunshine,  slept  a  semblance  of  repose,  excepting 
upon  the  two  men  who  were  harvesting  their 
wheat.  The  rhythmic  swish  of  their  reaping 
made  music  about  them :  the  fallen  masses  lay 
heavy  before  their  feet.  In  silence  they  worked 
on,  and  on.  Only  the  younger  man,  occasionally, 
would  stop  and,  raising  himself,  wipe,  with  his 
bare  brown  arm,  the  sweat  from  his  knitted  fore- 
head. At  such  moments  the  father,  steadily 
swinging  his  sickle,  would  draw  down  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  in  a  sardonic  imitation  of 
a  smile. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  the  son,  having 
cast  a  slow  look  behind  him,"opened  his  long- 
sealed  lips.  "  Mother's  started,"  he  said,  as  he 
turned  again  to  his  work. 

" Thinking  of  dinner!"  replied  the  old  man 


THE  PROMISE  305 

with  a  sneer.  "  Twenty  minutes'  more  work, 
Koos,  afore  dinner-time  comes." 

The  son's  red  skin  grew  a  shade  darker. 
"'Tis  a  hot  walk  for  mother  in  the  sun/'  he 
said. 

"  Mother  don't  mind  work,"  replied  the  father. 
There  was  a  world  of  implication  in  his  accent, 
and  again  an  unsympathetic  silence  deepened 
between  the  pair,  till  from  the  misty  distance, 
beyond  the  river,  twelve  faint  strokes  came 
trembling  softly  across  the  heavy  haze.  At  the 
same  moment  a  little  bent  figure  appeared  on  the 
edge  of  the  field,  plodding  towards  them  :  the  old 
mother  stumbled  along,  with  a  bundle  and  a  can, 
the  midday  meal. 

"  Like  the  steeple-clock,"  said  the  father,  and 
a  momentary  mildness  came  over  his  features 
which  they  had  not  worn  before.  He  stood 
gazing  at  his  wife,  the  arm  that  held  the  sickle 
hanging  loose  in  well-earned  content.  The  old 
woman  smiled :  a  ripple,  like  a  grin,  seemed  to 
multiply  the  countless  furrows  of  her  parchmenty 
little  face.  She  set  down  her  burdens  and  began 
to  untie  the  spotted  handkerchief  around  the 
bundle.  Father  and  son  watched  keenly  with 
the  interest  inseparable  from  food. 

"  Beans  again  !  "  cried  the  father  in  accents  of 
immense  satisfaction,  as  he  hastily  removed  the 
lid  off  a  pewter  pot. 

Once  more  the  old  woman  grinned.  "  It  was 
father's  turn,"  she  said. 

"  Father's  turn  comes  twice  to  my  once," 
x 


306  THE  PROMISE 

retorted  Koos,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  accepts 
the  inevitable  and  doesn't  mind  it  overmuch. 

They  sat  down  to  their  meal,  out  in  the  heat 
with  the  prostrate  corn  all  around  them.  Few 
words  were  exchanged  between  them :  they 
belonged  to  that  peasant  class  which  thinks 
little  and  has  nothing  to  say.  But  any  observer 
would  very  soon  have  fathomed  the  relation 
existing  between  the  three  :  the  closely  sym- 
pathetic union  of  the  father  and  mother,  their 
slightly  disdainful  not  unaffectionate  semi- 
approval  of  the  son. 

"  Has  Koos  done  his  share  of  work  ? "  de- 
manded the  mother,  pausing,  with  uplifted  spoon, 
in  the  action  of  refilling  her  son's  plate.  Her 
tone  was  one  of  banter:  she  winked  across  at 
her  lord. 

"  He's  done  as  much  as  he  could,"  replied  the 
father:  the  son's  countenance  banished  all  ex- 
pression, with  an  effort.  But  he  showed  un- 
diminished alacrity  in  clearing  his  replenished 
plate. 

"  Koos  ought  to  have  been  a  rich  farmer's 
son,"  said  the  father  sententiously  filling  his  pipe 
at  the  completion  of  a  meal.  "Yes.  A  rich 
farmer's  son.  That's  what  Koos  ought  to  have 
been."  Neither  listener  answered.  This  re- 
mark, first  made  nearly  a  dozen  years  ago  and 
repeated  since  then  at  ever  lessening  intervals, 
was  always  received  with  a  silence  which,  in  the 
mother's  case  at  any  rate,  rested  on  assent.  Nor 
would  the  son's  have  been  an  eager  disclaimer. 


THE   PROMISE  307 

He  well  remembered  when  his  father  had  first 
uttered  this  opinion,  and  it  had  struck  him,  at 
once,  as  based  on  an  interesting  hypothesis.  He 
was  sixteen  at  the  time :  he  had  found  a  hen's 
egg  in  an  out-of-the-way  spot  where  it  had 
evidently  lain  for  several  days  and  had  given  it 
to  the  child  at  the  turnpike.  "You  ought  to 
have  been  a  rich  farmer's  son,"  his  father  had  de- 
clared, when  Koos  too  honestly  told  him.  The 
words  stuck.  Once  only,  in  all  these  years,  the 
son  had  retorted.  "  It  wouldn't  have  been  a  sin," 
he  said.  The  father  pondered  long  over  these 
words  without  fathoming  their  meaning. 

But  Koos  Korver  was  not  a  rich  farmer's  son  : 
on  the  contrary,  his  parents  were  of  the  kind 
that  barely  keeps  its  head  above  water,  and  is 
almost  ruined  by  the  death  of  a  cow.  Poor 
peasant  famers  they  were,  of  the  humblest :  hard- 
working, morning  and  night,  in  a  manner  not 
conceivable  by  a  dweller  in  towns,  but  happy  in 
the  pride  of — as  yet — undisputed  possession, 
owners,  as  grandfather  had  been,  of  the  tumble- 
down, painfully  repaired  homestead  and  its  dozen 
poor  mortgaged  acres,  Korver  of  the  Kolk.  There 
were  hundreds  of  Korvers  in  the  neighbourhood. 
But  Korver  of  the  Kolk  was  a  proprietor,  rich  or 
poor. 

Poor  he  was,  and  proud  of  it,  with  ever- 
increasing  pride,  as  his  poor,  hard-working  life 
developed  into  his  one  great  life-possession.  Of 
evenings,  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  dead-beat, 
he  would  sit  gazing  steadily  at  the  palms  of  his 


308  THE   PROMISE 

knotty  and  callous  hands.  They  had  become  his 
conscious  charter  of  nobility.  The  son,  tired  too 
and  aware  that  he  also  had  done  his  best,  yawned 
wearily,  face  to  face  with  a  virtue  he  might 
perhaps  approve  but  could  never  enjoy. 

At  the  midday-rest,  so  indispensable  to  those 
who  begin  work  about  three  in  the  morning,  the 
father  and  son  lay  some  distance  apart,  deep- 
sunk  in  soft  depths  of  sweet  restfulness,  the 
father  with  his  pipe,  the  son,  on  his  stomach,  his 
straw-coloured  head  buried  in  his  arms.  The 
mother  trudged  back  to  her  indoor-work,  a  long 
way  from  this  hired  field  of  the  morning's  harvest- 
ing, along  the  white-hot  road. 

The  father  was  the  first  to  start  up  and 
resume  his  sickle. 

"  To  work ! "  he  cried  across,  at  his  son,  who 
had  already  risen. 

"  Of  course,"  muttered,  under  his  breath,  the 
son. 

And  the  reaping  went  on  steadily,  with  short, 
sharp  strokes  of  the  shiny  sickles,  and  the  corn 
fell,  swiftly  prostrate,  in  wide  and  harmonious 
curves. 

At  four  of  the  clock,  with  the  great  heat  still 
all  around  them,  the  reapers  held  their  hands 
and  gazed,  with  contented  eyes,  on  the  devasta- 
tion behind  them.  For  the  first  time,  since  their 
meal,  the  father  broke  the  silence. 

"It's  time  you  were  going  for  the  waggon," 
he  said.  "  I  promised  your  mother  to  take  in  that 
hay  from  the  lower  field  to-night."    Without  any 


THE   PROMISE  309 

answer  beyond  a  nod  of  assent  Koos  went  to 
pick  up  his  coat.  He  started  along  the  field, 
out  of  sight  in  the  nearest  ditch,  and  the  father, 
looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  resumed  work. 
When  the  waggon  drew  near,  half  an  hour  later, 
he  joined  it,  and  together  the  two  men  went  down 
to  the  lower  field  and  began  loading  up  the  hay. 

In  an  imaginative  moment,  a  couple  of  weeks 
later,  Koos  regretted  that  he  had  said  so  little 
to  his  father  on  that  long  last  day  in  the  fields. 
But  he  immediately  recognised  the  futility  of 
the  thought.  What  could  he  have  said  worth 
saying?  How  many  days  had  they  not  lived 
through  thus  in  silence  together,  day  after  day, 
at  work  in  the  fields,  with  nothing  to  say,  until 
the  last  ? 

When  the  waggon  was  sufficiently  loaded, 
they  started  homewards.  The  long  day's  labour 
was  done.  The  calm  shadows  stretched  solemn 
in  the  serene  radiance  of  the  lowering  sun.  The 
white  road  lay  restful.  On  both  sides  hung  the 
hush  of  the  deserted  fields. 

Suddenly — Koos  never  quite  knew  how  it 
happened,  and  yet  what  was  there  to  know? — 
suddenly  a  blood-red  motor-car  was  upon  them, 
shrieking,  rattling,  in  a  cloud  of  nervous  noise 
and  dust— it  was  past :  the  waggon,  was  over- 
turned, in  a  ditch,  top-heavy :  the  horses  lay 
kicking-out  madly— Koos  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  road. 

The  muffled  figures  on  the  back  seat  of  the 
motor    pointed    laughing  to  their  conspicuous 


310  THE   PROMISE 

number,  as  well  they  might,  for  of  course  it  was 
a  false  one. 

The  farmer's  son  ran  to  the  horses.  N  Father ! " 
he  called.  "  Father,  help  ! "  He  got  no  answer ; 
hurrying  to  the  other  side  of  the  overturned 
waggon,  he  saw  his  father  lying  under  the  wheel. 

The  next  ten  minutes  of  frenzied  endeavour 
exceeded  anything  that  Koos  Korver  could 
realise  in  the  slow  thought  of  his  after-life.  To 
hasten  for  human  assistance  upon  that  lonely 
road  would  have  been  worse  than  futile  :  already 
the  only  active  presence  within  call,  the  red 
motor,  was  fast  curling  out  of  sight.  He  flung 
himself,  single-handed,  upon  the  horses,  the 
waggon,  straining  as  he  had  never  strained 
before,  with  prayers  and  imprecations  :  he  was 
not  over-strong :  he  was  not,  as  has  been  said, 
over-active :  in  this  crisis  his  energies  seemed 
multiplied  tenfold.  At  last,  breathless,  with 
heaving  chest  and  starting  eye-balls,  he  stood 
beside  the  trembling  brutes,  abusing  them,  im- 
ploring them  not  to  take  fright  again.  He  then 
succeeded,  after  cutting  the  trace  which  was  not 
broken,  in  extracting  the  poor  injured  body  from 
under  the  wheel.  He  had  to  tie  the  horses  to 
a  tree,  before  he  could  venture  to  place  his  father 
against  a  bank  and  commence  his  few  awkward 
attempts  at  succour. 

Korver  of  the  Kolk  lay  groaning  in  semi- 
conscious agony.  Twice  he  opened  his  eyes : 
twice  he  endeavoured  in  vain  to  speak.  The 
son,  seeing,  with  a  peasant's  constant  perception 


THE  PROMISE  311 

how  animals  die,  that  the  end  was  approaching, 
wondered  wildly  whether  he  could  do  anything  to 
avert,  or  at  any  rate,  alleviate  it.  He  thought  not. 
When  that  look  came  about  a  dumb  creature's 
eye-balls,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

In  the  majestic  silence  of  the  expectant 
summer-evening,  clear  as  unclouded  crystal,  the 
approaching  darkness  seemed  to  hold  back,  for 
a  long  moment,  the  folds  of  its  irrevocably  sink- 
ing pall.  The  horses,  still  quivering,  lifted  their 
heads  and  neighed.  A  great  trembling  seized 
upon  the  dying  man  that  shook  him  from  head 
to  foot. 

"  Promise,"  he  gasped  with  a  mighty  effort. 
The  son,  kneeling  in  the  roadway,  bent  his  head 
to  his  father's  lips.  There  was  a  long  interval 
before  the  words  came  at  last,  with  a  rush  of 
blood  at  the  end  that  stifled  them. 

"Promise  always  to  keep  your  mother  at 
the  Kolk!" 

Jan  Korver  spoke  no  more,  but  his  eyes 
continued  to  gaze  into  his  son's,  praying,  appeal- 
ing, entreating,  as  only  dying  eyes  can  pray. 

"  I  promise,"  said  the  son.  A  few  minutes 
later  he  closed  the  eyes  and  rose  to  his  feet. 
He  lifted  the  dead  body  on  to  one  of  the  horses 
— not  the  one  that  had  shied — and,  in  the  act  of 
jumping  on  to  its  companion,  hesitated,  and  came 
down  heavily  again  on  the  ground. 

"  No,"  he  said  aloud.  And,  leading  both 
animals,  and  steadying,  with  one  hand,  the  burden 
beside    him,    he    walked,    through    the    serene 


312  THE   PROMISE 

solitude  of  the  night-time,  towards  the  distant 
glimmer  of  the  homestead.  Once  he  turned  to 
look  at  the  dim  shape  of  the  waggon,  a  ruin 
under  tumbled  hay,  by  the  roadside.  As  he 
went  along,  some  big  bird  broke  away  out  of 
the  corn,  close  by,  and  startled  him.  He  was 
too  unstrung  to  recognise  its  breed. 

As  he  passed  through  the  farm-gate,  the 
watch-dog,  astonished,  bounded  out  to  meet  him. 
Barking,  the  dog  sprang  up  to  her  young  master, 
sprang  up  to  the  terrible  bundle,  a  supine  mass, 
pendant  over  the  horse's  flanks.  With  a  fierce 
oath  Koos  broke  out  at  her.  And,  suddenly,  as 
if  realising  something,  the  dog  fled  back,  howling, 
to  the  house. 

The  old  mother  had  appeared  in  the  half-dark 
of  the  doorway.  At  sight  of  the  strange  convoy, 
big  with  catastrophe,  she  broke  into  an  articulate 
cry. 

"There  has  been  an  accident,"  said  Koos. 
"Father  is " 

"  Dead ! "  cried  the  widow,  and  at  the  sound 
of  that  cry  the  dog  shrieked  in  unison. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  lifted  her  face  off  her 
hands.  She  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  the  deep 
cupboard-bed  in  which  the  body  lay.  Koos 
stood  opposite  her. 

14  What  will  become  of  us  now  ?  "  she  said. 

He  replied  :  "  I  shall  have  to  work  for  two." 

She  smiled  a  pitiful  little  smile,  so  full  of 
doubt  it  cut  deep  into  his  heart  and  caused  him 
to  set  his  teeth. 


A 

THE   PROMISE  313 

Then  he  told  her,  in  the  simplest  words,  of 
his  promise  to  his  father. 

She  broke  into  renewed  weeping.  "  Always 
thinking  of  me!"  she  sobbed.  But  to  the  son 
she  said  nothing,  and  he  felt  that  to  her  hand,  so 
suddenly  bereft  of  its  staff,  the  proffered  support 
was  no  more  than  a  broken  reed. 

Yet  he  undertook  his  task  bravely  and  bravely 
carried  it  through.  He  engaged,  as  a  cheap  farm- 
hand, the  boy  from  the  turnpike  to  whom,  many 
years  ago,  he  had  given  the  egg.  And  he  worked, 
hardest  of  any  for  miles  around.  The  mother 
also,  with  the  years  of  her  loneliness  multiplying 
upon  her,  worked,  bent  nearly  double,  still 
working,  in  her  eyes  a  look  of  worn-out  hunger 
unappeased. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  and  amuse  yourself  like 
the  other  men  ?  "  she  asked  of  him,  almost  testily. 

He  answered  :  "  There's  the  interest  on  the 
mortgage  to  pay." 

u  But  you  might  leave  off  now,  of  a  winter 
evening,  at  eight  o'clock  !  You're  getting  on  for 
thirty:  you've  never  enjoyed  yourself.  You 
don't  seem  to  me  to  have  had  any  youth  ?  " 

He  was  sitting  netting  by  the  fireside.  He 
looked  up  at  her  in  astonishment.  She  had 
never  spoken  anything  of  the  kind  before.  And, 
even  now,  her  face  and  her  voice  were  chiefly 
indicative  of  discontent. 

"Father  didn't  like  that  sort  of  thing,"  he 
answered.  "  Father  used  to  say  he'd  never  done 
it  himself." 


314  THE  PROMISE 

"  Father  was  a  very  different  character  from 
you,"  she  answered.  "  Father  loved  work,  the 
more  of  it,  the  better.  But  it's  hard  on  you. 
You'd  enjoy  a  little  gaiety,  you  know  you  would." 
She  spoke  with  vehemence,  a  long  pent-up 
energy  of  anger  against  herself,  and  this  boy's 
nature,  and  their  lot. 

"  There's  the  theatrical  society  on  at  the 
village  to-night,"  she  continued,  spitting  out  her 
words  as  if  to  the  last  she  would  have  held 
them  back.  "  Why  don't  you  go  to  it  ?  All  the 
others  do ! " 

"  The  theatrical  society !  I ! "  he  said.  He 
said  nothing  else,  but  the  words  seemed  to 
inflame  her. 

"Yes,  you!"  she  replied,  "you — you — you." 
She  took  up  her  knitting,  and  flashed  the  needles 
to  and  fro.  "  You'll  find  a  clean  shirt  on  your 
bed,"  she  said  presently.  Then  she  knitted 
faster  and  faster :  he  had  laid  down  his  work  on 
his  knees.  The  silence  between  them  became 
unendurable :  he  rose  heavily,  and  slouched 
upstairs,  and  washed  and  shaved. 

When  he  came  down  again,  she  enveloped 
him  in  a  swift  glance  of  approval,  pretending 
not  to  have  looked  up.  He  went  out,  without 
exchanging  another  word.  She  knitted  on,  and, 
in  the  midst  of  her  knitting,  heaved  one  sigh. 
Presently  she  crept  to  bed,  in  the  great  cup- 
board-bed, for  the  first  time,  ever  since  she  could 
remember,  alone. 

Koos  Korver  walked  along  the  road  to  the 


THE  PROMISE  315 

village  with  the  steadfast  step  of  a  man  who  is 
resolving  not  to  turn  back.  It  was  a  festival 
night,  the  annual  performance  of  the  Amateur 
Actors'  Club.  The  hired  hand,  Dirk,  who  was  a 
performer — he  brought  in  a  letter — had  talked 
about  the  important  event  all  through  the  mid- 
day meal.  Koos  had  barely  listened,  but  he  now 
understood  the  effect  this  talk  had  had  upon  his 
mother. 

"  I  don't  think  you're  a  member,"  said  the  man 
at  the  door. 

Koos  blushed  scarlet  in  the  lamp-glare  of  the 
entry. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  become  one,"  he  said. 

"You'll  have  to  be  balloted.  Is  there  any 
member  can  introduce  you  meanwhile  ?  " 

"  My  hired  hand,  Dirk  Pott,"  replied  Korver, 
blushing  more  furiously  still.  The  ticket  taker, — a 
stripling  of  eighteen,  monitor  at  the  parish  school 
— smiled  superciliously,  and  the  candidate  for 
diversion  found  himself  seated  hot  and  uncom- 
fortable, in  a  front  rank,  behind  footlights,  in  the 
darkened  hall.  He  had  never  seen  a  stage  or 
stage-illumination  :  the  play  was  progressing : 
the  glare  about  the  actors,  in  contrast  to  the 
semi-obscurity  of  the  audience,  disconcerted  him. 

As  he  sat  wondering  what  the  whole  thing 
meant  and  what  the  performers  were  saying,  so 
clearly  in  the  silence,  the  double  doors  at  the 
back  of  the  stage-apartment  opened  with  a  swing. 
A  young  girl  came  on,  attired  in  white  muslin 
and   pink  ribbons,  such  raiment   as   Koos  had 


316  THE   PROMISE 

never  before  seen  except  in  the  squire's  unap- 
proachable pew.  The  whole  audience  clapped 
on  this  radiant  creature's  appearance.  Koos 
Korver,  though  not  knowing  why  one  should 
do  so,  clapped  too. 

Immediately  she  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  a 
monologue  laying  bare  her  heart's  affections. 
"  I  love  him,"  she  said  deliciously,  looking  at 
the  audience,  looking,  Koos  thought,  at  him. 
And  all  through  the  five  acts  of  the  performance 
she  was  sweet  and  coy  and  coquette,  and  most 
fascinating,  lovable  and  lovely.  To  Koos,  who 
knew  nothing  of  plays,  she  was  the  character 
she  represented,  distinction  being  impossible  to 
him  between  the  actress  and  a  part.  He  did 
not  feel  any  desire  to  punch  the  head  of  the 
villain  who  insulted  her,  because  of  course  he 
was  aware  they  were  only  pretending,  but  neither 
could  he  realise  that  Suze  Dolling,  the  inn-keeper's 
daughter,  to  whom  he  had  never  spoken,  could 
be  a  separate  personality  from  Adelaide  Mon- 
tresor,  the  wronged  and  virtuous  and  irresistible 
heroine  of  the  piece. 

He  went  home,  dazed,  and  dreamed  of  her, 
the  white  muslin  apparition  that  said  "I  love 
him,"  and  smiled  bewitchingly,  and  turned  from 
riches  and  pomp  and  position,  in  ^magnificent 
refusal  and  scorn. 

It  was  love  at  first  sight,  the  overwhelming 
passion  of  a  man  no  longer  childish,  whose  mind 
hitherto  has  not  been  occupied  by  such  things. 
The    stage-vision    remained    with    him    in    the 


THE   PROMISE  317 

daylight.  He  called  his  farm-hand  into  the  barn 
and  shamefacedly  questioned  him  about  the 
membership  of  the  Theatre  Club.  Was  it  neces- 
sary to  be  a  good  actor?  He  could  never  be 
that,  but  he  might,  for  instance,  carry  in  a  letter. 
People  heard  of  his  plans  with  amazement :  his 
mother  shook  her  head. 

During  all  that  was  left  of  that  winter  he 
frequented  the  meetings  of  the  Club,  and  even 
took  his  awkward  part  in  some  of  their  rehearsals. 
He  saw  Suze  Dolling  in  her  theatre  dresses,  and 
also  in  her  own  plain  clothes,  but  she  always 
remained  to  him  the  heroine  of  the  introductory 
night.  He  was  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her  : 
he  ventured  to  court  her  openly,  and  it  soon 
became  manifest  that  she  was  not  adverse  to  his 
suit.  The  other  young  men  in  the  Club,  after 
having  chaffed,  began  to  congratulate  him,  for 
few  inhabitants  of  the  village  were  better  off  than 
Dolling,  the  inn-keeper. 

So  one  evening,  when  the  winter  was  well- 
nigh  over,  a  few  days  before  the  last  meeting  of 
the  season,  Koos  Korver,  having  burnished  and 
brushed  himself  to  the  extreme  of  human  endur- 
ance, appeared  in  his  rusty  best  clothes  before 
the  prosperous  father  of  Suze.  That  middle-aged 
and  unpoetic  personage  most  amiably  offered  him 
a  dram. 

No  proposal  could  have  been  more  opportune. 
Under  the  invigorating  influence  of  the  brandy, 
the  scarlet-faced  suitor  presented  his  suit  in  a  not 
too  unreasonable  manner.     With  a  few  manly 


318  THE   PROMISE 

words,  from  the  heart,  he  told  how  sweet  Suze 
was,  to  him,  and  how  sweet  he,  on  her. 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  inn-keeper,  twiddling  his 
thumbs,  in  his  comfortable  arm-chair  by  the 
stove. 

"Of  course  I  know  I'm  not  worthy  of  her," 
suggested  Koos. 

u  Quite  so,"  replied  Dolling.  "  I  suppose  it  is 
a  question  of  worth — marriage  is.  How  much 
are  you  worth,  by-the-by  ?  " 

The  young  farmer's  heart  sank  into  his  boots. 
"  Very  little  indeed,"  he  answered.  "  There's  only 
the  farm,  and  it's  mortgaged.  I've  hard  work, 
day  and  night,  to  make  both  ends  meet." 

"  Dear,  dear,"  said  the  inn-keeper,  "and  Suze'll 
have  five  thousand  florins  of  her  mother's  on  the 
day  of  her  marriage  and  a  good  deal  more  than 
that  when  they've  put  me  underground." 

"I  know  I'm  poor,"  acknowledged  Koos. 
"  Father  always  used  to  say  I  ought  to  have  been 
a  rich  man's  son.  I  wish  I  had  been,  so  as  to  be 
more  deserving  of  Suze." 

Dolling  sat  for  some  moments  smoking 
thoughtfully.   Koos  felt  as  if  the  world  stood  still. 

At  last  the  father  spoke.  "I'm  not  one  of 
those,"  he  said  slowly,  removing  his  pipe,  "as 
insist  there  must  be  money  on  both  sides.  You're 
Korver  of  the  Kolk,  and  we  all  know  you  for  a 
hard-working,  respectable  man  that  ought  to  make 
a  girl  a  good  husband.  I  don't  mind  your  speak- 
ing to  my  daughter." 

Koos    felt  as  if  the    world  suddenly    went 


THE   PROMISE  319 

round,  with  a  rush  that  carried  him  off  his  legs. 
He  was  breaking  out  into  confused  expressions 
of  gratitude,  when  the  inn-keeper  stopped  him 
with  a  wave  of  his  pipe. 

"  But  I've  one  condition,"  continued  the  inn- 
keeper. "  It's  what  the  lawyers  call  a  *  sinecure 
non.'  Which  means  that  you  can't  get  out  of  it 
anyway.     It's  either  do  or  don't." 

"What  is  the  'do'?"  demanded  the  young 
farmer  stoutly. 

"  Your  mother's  lived  with  you  all  your  life, 
Korver.  Now  I  can't  send  my  daughter,  as 
mistress,  into  a  house  where  her  mother-in-law 
lives  that  was  mistress  before  her." 

"But  how  can  that  be  helped?"  questioned 
Koos  naively. 

"  You  must  find  another  home  for  your  mother, 
before  Suze  goes  to  the  Kolk." 

He  spoke  with  great  decision,  but  Koos,  in  his 
eagerness,  smiled,  knowing  how  easy  it  would  be 
to  explain  the  impossibility  of  any  such  arrange- 
ment, and  he  hastily  told  of  his  promise  to  his 
dying  father,  all  the  dramatic  incidents  of  the 
case.     The  other  listened,  seriously  smoking. 

"  You  see,  I  am  bound,"  concluded  Koos,  u  by 
the  most  sacred  of  promises."  He  smiled  again, 
heart  and  conscience  well  satisfied. 

At  last  Dolling  deliberately  took  his  pipe  from 
between  his  lips. 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  he  said.  "  You  must  see 
about  that.  But  my  daughter  don't  go  to  a  home 
that  wouldn't  be  hers,  but  her  mother-in-law's." 


320  THE  PROMISE 

"  But  don't  you  see "  began  Koos. 

"  I  see  what  I  sees.  I  sees  that  I'm  willing  to 
give  my  daughter,  with  her  five  thousand  florins 
down  and  all  her  expectations,  to  a  respectable 
chap  as  can  hardly  keep  a  roof  over  his  head.  I 
sees  that  few  fathers  'd  do  as  much  as  that.  But 
what  I  sticks  to  I  sticks  to.  And  what  I  have 
said  I  have  said." 

No  argument  or  entreaty  could  move  him. 
Nor  was  Koos  the  sort  of  man  to  argue  or  entreat 
overmuch.  Very  soon  he  gave  over  in  proud 
despair.     He  rose  to  take  leave. 

"  I've  treated  you  generously,"  said  the  inn- 
keeper. "You,  treat  me  likewise.  Don't  you 
speak  to  Suze  till  you've  fulfilled  my  condition. 
Then  you  can  come  and  fetch  her,  but  not  a  word 
before." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Koos  Korver,  and  went 
home. 

He  sat  opposite  his  mother  as  before,  and  the 
hired  hand  sat  between  them.  He  worked,  as 
before,  harder  than  any  one  in  the  parish,  except- 
ing the  widow.  The  weeks  passed  :  there  were 
no  more  meetings  of  the  Theatrical  Society  :  the 
days  were  dull. 

He  would  sit  in  moody  silence,  of  evenings, 
for  hours.  She,  opposite  him,  opened  her  mouth 
to  speak  a  dozen  times :  the  words  stuck  in  her 
throat.  Half  his  secret  was  their  common 
property.  She  fancied  he  dared  not  ask  the 
hand  of  a  girl  so  much  richer  than  himself,  and 
she  admired  him  for  it.     Personally,  she  disliked 


THE   PROMISE  321 

the  idea  of  a  wealthy  wife,  unlike  most  peasants, 
having  grown  thus  proud,  in  her  long  self- 
sacrifice,  of  her  poverty,  her  husband's  hard 
work.  "  Marry  a  girl  that'll  scour  and  scrub,"  she 
said,*"  not  a  pink-faced,  play-acting  miss."  How 
much  of  this  was  attributable  to  jealousy,  it 
would  be  hard  to  say.  But  once,  after  a  long 
period  of  ponderation,  vanquished  by  his  sullenly 
silent  ferocious  perfunctoriness,  she  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and,  looking  him  in  the 
eyes,  she  said  :  "  Dare  ! " 

He  turned  on  his  seat,  steadying  with  both 
hands  the  turnips  he  was  sorting  in  his  lap.  "  I 
daren't,"  he  replied.  She  went  away  without 
another  word.  She  felt  that  she  had  done  her 
duty,  even  more. 

One  evening,  when  he  had  been  to  the  town 
to  sell  his  pigs,  and  had  failed  to  get  a  decent 
price  for  them,  she  met  him  at  the  gate  with  the 
tidings  that  one  of  their  two  cows  had  pre- 
maturely calved  that  morning,  and  that  both 
cow  and  calf  were  dead. 

He  listened  to  her,  very  calmly,  and  passed 
into  the  kitchen,  ahead  of  her.  He  sat  down, 
heavily  :  she  noticed  that  he  clenched  his  fists. 

"  So  that  means  ruin,"  he  said.  "  Utter,  irre- 
trievable ruin." 

"Not  quite,"  she  protested  with  trembling 
lips.     "  Perhaps  not  quite  ?  " 

"Yes,  quite,"  he  answered.  "It  means  the 
foreclosure  of  the  mortgage,  for  we  can't  pay  the 
interest.     It  means  giving  up  the  Kolk." 

Y 


322  THE   PROMISE 

She  shrieked  aloud.  Unemotional  as  she  was, 
he  had  only  once  before  heard  such  a  sound  from 
her  lips,  when  he  brought  home  his  father  dead. 

"  I  couldn't  survive  that !  I  couldn't  live  in 
any  other  place.     It  would  kill  me,"  she  cried. 

He  turned  his  eyes  on  her,  along,  penetrating 
look. 

"  I  know  it  would,"  he  said. 

And  then  suddenly,  quite  unexpectedly  to  him- 
self, he  told  her  all  about  Suze,  and  his  chances 
of  marriage,  and  the  inn-keeper's  "  sinecure  non," 
— all.  For  nothing  mattered  now,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  and  his  hold  on  his  own  destiny  was  gone. 

He  poured  the  whole  thing  out  into  her  face 
that,  after  the  first  terror,  had  set  itself  stolid. 
However  he  might  try  to  objectivise  his  voice, 
the  pent-up  animus  of  the  last  three  months  got 
into  it  and  thrilled  it.  The  new  spring,  with  its 
budding  and  bursting,  was  in  every  note  that 
referred  to  his  love.  Once  or  twice  she  shrank,  as 
if  he  stung  her  :  then  again  she  composed  herself, 
both  hands  pushed  down,  hard,  upon  her  knees. 

When,  at  last,  he  stopped  for  breath,  he  hoped 
she  would  say  something.  But  she  only  sat 
staring  at  him,  her  two  hands  upon  her  knees. 
In  desperation  he  hurried  on,  to  escape  from  the 
unendurable  silence. 

"  So  you  see,  we  have  no  choice,"  he  repeated 
eagerly.  "  I  should  never  have  broken  my  word 
to  my  father.  But  now,  it  is  impossible  to  keep 
it.  Fate  has  made  it  impossible.  You  must  leave 
the  Kolk  anyhow." 


THE   PROMISE  323 

"  Yes,  anyhow,"  she  said,  finding  voice. 

"The  notary  will  certainly  sell  us  up.  He 
told  me  so  last  time  I  went  to  him.  So  you  see, 
we  have  no  choice." 

"  We  have  no  choice,"  she  repeated. 

Then  she  got  up  and  knocked  against  the 
table,  causing  the  tea-things  to  rattle. 

"  I  am  going  to  bed,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  feel 
very  well."  She  stood  still,  near  the  doorway, 
trying  to  steady  herself  by  a  chair.  "  You  ought 
to  have  been  a  rich  man's  son,"  she  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  words  had  been 
spoken  in  that  house  since  old  Jan's  death.  They 
struck  the  son  straight,  like  an  insult.  And  he 
answered  vehemently,  in  all  the  bitterness  of  his 
life-long  ill-fate,  cursing  the  day  that  had  brought 
him  forth  and  the  years  full  of  profitless  strain. 

"Don't  abuse  me,"  she  said,  putting  up  her 
hands,  as  if  to  ward  off  his  words,  "I  wasn't 
reproaching  you." 

And  she  went  to  her  bed  and  lay  listening, 
dressed,  till  she  deemed  him  upstairs  and  asleep. 
Near  midnight  she  lighted  a  candle  and  climbed 
into  his  garret.  He  frightened  her,  as  she  pushed 
aside  the  door.  For  he  was  sitting  up  in  bed, 
his  eyes  wide. 

"  I — I  came  to  see  if  you  were  sleeping,"  she 
stammered.  Her  manner,  her  whole  appearance 
alarmed  him.  He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  piloted 
her  downstairs  again  like  a  little  child,  and  put  her 
into  bed  and  tucked  her  in,  and  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead. 


324  THE   PROMISE 

But,  when  he  left  her,  she  said  to  herself:  "  It 
wants  only  a  couple  of  hours  to  daybreak,"  and 
she  stole  from  the  house,  in  the  pitchy  dark,  to 
the  broad  ditch  that  ripples  and  stagnates  behind 
the  pig-styes.  There  she  bent  down  and  slid  her 
hand  into  the  water.  "  How  cold  it  is  !  "  she  said 
aloud. 

She  went  back  to  the  house,  creeping  stealthily, 
and  in  the  pantry  she  lighted  the  paraffin-stove 
and  made  herself  some  coffee.  She  drank  it  hot, 
so  hot  that  it  would  have  scalded  her  but  for  the 
care  with  which  she  blew  on  it.  Then,  having 
extinguished  the  lamp — she  turned  back  a  few 
steps  to  make  quite  sure  it  was  out — she  hastened 
down  to  the  ditch  again,  and  several  times  she 
said  "  Jan ! "  to  herself,  on  her  way,  out  aloud, 
"  Jan !  Jan ! "  till,  reaching  the  water-side,  she  let 
herself  slip  down  into  undistinguishable  depths. 

Koos  Korver  of  the  Kolk  has  an  admirable 
wife  and  four  blooming  children.  No  shadow  has 
ever  fallen  upon  his  married  felicity  :  he  is  pros- 
perous, and  the  best  men  declare  he  deserves  his 
prosperity.  But  his  look  is  morose  :  a  curse  lies 
on  his  innocent  heart. 


PRINTED   BY   WILLIAM   CLOWES   AND   SONS,    LIMITED,    LONDON   AND   BECCLES . 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


